mr. francis was by choice an early riser, and next morning, before either of the young men were awake, he had been splashing and gasping in his cold tub, had felt with the keenest enjoyment the genial afterglow produced on his braced and invigorated skin by the application of the rough towel, and was now out on the terrace, pacing briskly along the dry gravel walk on this adorable winter morning, waiting cheerfully for his desired breakfast. now and then he would break into a nimble trot for fifty paces, or even give a little skip in the air as a child does, from the sheer exhilaration of his pulses. his thoughts, too, must have been as sparkling as the morning itself, as brisk and cheery as his own physical economy, for from time to time he would troll out a bar or two of some lusty song, or stop to chirrup with pursed lips to the stiff, half-frozen birds, and his pleasant, close-shaven face was continually wreathed in smiles. here was one at least in whom old age had brought no spell of freezing to laggard blood, no dulling of that zest of life which is so often and so erroneously considered as an attribute of youth only; life was still immensely enjoyable,[pg 26] and all things were delightful to his sympathetic eye.
such a buoyancy of spirits is a most engaging thing, provided only it be natural and unforced. but too often the old, who remain young, have the aspect as of grizzly kittens; their spirits are but a parody of youthfulness, their antics broken-winded and spasmodic. in a moment they fall from the heights of irresponsible gaiety to an equally unwarrantable churlishness; they maintain no level way; their tempers are those of jerking marionettes, a performance of jointed dolls.
but how different was the joyousness of mr. francis! nothing could be more native to him than his morning exhilaration. authentic was the merriment that sparkled in his light-blue eyes, authentic the lightness of his foot as it tripped along the gravel walk; and none could doubt that his fine spirits were effortless and unaffected.
to reach so ripe an age as that to which mr. francis had attained means, even to those whose life has lain in the pleasantest lines, to have had to bear certain trials, sorrows, misunderstandings, necessarily incident to the mere passage of years. to bear these bravely and without bitterness is the part of any robust nature; to bear them with unabated cheerfulness and without any loss of the zest for life is a rarer gift; and the silver-haired old gentleman who paced so gaily up and down the terraced walks, while he waited for young men to have their fill of sleep and make a tardy appearance, was a figure not without galantry.[pg 27] here were no impatient gestures; he was hungry, but the time of waiting would not be shortened by fretfulness, nor had he any inclination to so unamiable a failing, and for nearly half an hour he pursued his cheery walk up and down. at length the welcome booming of the gong sounded distantly, and he tripped toward the house.
harry was down, the clock pointing to an indulgent half past nine, but the youthful moroseness of morning sat on his brow. to so old a traveller through life as his uncle, the ways of weaning this were manifold, and he broke into speech.
"splendid morning, my dear boy," he said; "and the ice, they tell me, bears. what will you do? what shall we do? are you shooting to-day, or skating? and will you like to take a tramp round the old place with me, as you suggested last night?"
harry was examining dishes on the side-table with a supercilious air.
"very cold, is it not?" he said. "we were thinking of shooting. do you shoot, uncle francis?"
"i will shoot with pleasure, if you will let me," he said. "yes, it is cold—too cold for pottering about, as you say. fish cakes, eggs and bacon, cold game. yes, i'll begin with a fish cake. what a hungry place vail is! i am famished, literally famished. and where is geoffrey?"
"geoffrey was going to his bath when i came down," said harry. "it is to be hoped he will[pg 28] be more nearly awake after it. he had one eye open only when i saw him."
"fine gift to be able to sleep like that," said mr. francis; "i heard you two boys go up to bed last night, and sat an hour reading after that. but i awoke at eight, as i always do, and got up."
harry's morose mood was on the thaw.
"and have you been waiting for us since then, uncle francis?" he said. "really, i am awfully sorry. we'll have breakfast earlier to-morrow. it was stupid of me."
"not a bit, not a bit, harry. i like a bit of a walk before breakfast. wonderful thing for the circulation after your bath. ah, here's geoffrey.—good-morning, my dear boy!"
"we'll shoot, to-day, geoff, as we settled," said harry. "uncle francis will come with us. wake up, you pig."
geoffrey yawned.
"how's the luck?" he said. "lord! i had such a nightmare, harry! you, and the luck, and mr. vail, and the picture of the wicked baron all mixed up together somehow. i forget how it went."
"very remarkable!" said harry. "i dreamed of the luck, too, now you mention it. we must have dreamed the same thing, geoff, because i also have forgotten how it went."
"and i," said mr. francis, "dreamed about nothing at all, very pleasantly, all night. and what a morning i awoke to! just the day for a good tramp in the woods. dear me, harry, what[pg 29] a simpleton your dear father used to think me! 'what are you going to do?' he would ask me, and i would only want a pocketful of cartridges, a snack of cold lunch, and leave to prowl about by myself without a keeper, no trouble to anybody."
"yes, that's good fun," said geoffrey. "now it's a rabbit, or over the stubble a partridge. then a bit of cover, and you put up a pheasant. let's have a go-as-you-please day, harry."
"the poetry of shooting," said mr. francis. "cold partridge for any one but me? no? you lads have no appetites!"
the keeper had been given his orders the day before, and very soon after breakfast the three shooters were ready to start. they went out by a garden door which gave on a flight of some dozen stone steps leading to the lawn; mr. francis, leading the way, nearly fell on the topmost of them, for they were masked with ice, and half turned as he recovered himself, to give a word of warning to the others. but he was too late, and harry, who followed him, not looking to his feet, but speaking to geoffrey over his shoulder at the same moment almost, had slipped on the treacherous stone and fallen sprawling, dropping his gun, and clutching ineffectually at the railing to save himself. mr. francis gave one exclamation of startled dismay, and ran to his assistance.
"my dear fellow," he cried, "i hope you are not hurt?"
harry lay still a moment, his mouth twisted[pg 30] with pain; then, taking hold of the railing, pulled himself to his feet, and stood with bowed head, gripping hard on the banister.
"all sideways on my ankle," he said.—"just see if my gun's all right, geoff.—yes, i've twisted it, i'm afraid." he paused another moment, faint and dizzy, with a feeling of empty sickness, and then hobbled up the steps again.
"an awful wrench," he said. "just give me your arm, uncle francis, will you? i can hardly put my foot to the ground."
leaning on him, he limped back into the hall and dragged off his boot.
"yes, it feels pretty bad," he said; "i came with my whole weight on to it. i shall be as lame as a tree."
mr. francis was on his knees, and in a moment had stripped off harry's stocking with quick, deft fingers.
"what bad luck! what awfully bad luck!" he said. "put a cold-water compress on it at once, my dear boy. it is already swelling!"
harry lifted his leg on to a chair opposite.
"it's just a sprain," he said. "go out, uncle francis, you and geoffrey. i'll put a bandage on."
templeton had answered mr. francis's ringing of the bell, and was dismissed again with orders for cold water and linen.
"not till i have seen you comfortable, my dear fellow," said mr. francis. "dear me, what bad luck! does it hurt you, harry?"
[pg 31]
"no, no, it is nothing," said the boy rather impatiently, irritated both by the pain and the fussing. "do go out, uncle francis, with geoffrey, and leave me. the men are waiting by the home cover. i can look after myself perfectly."
mr. francis still seemed half loath to leave him, and, had he followed his inclinations, he would have instituted himself as sick-nurse, to change the bandage or read to him. but it was the part of wisdom to humour the patient, who quite distinctly wished to be left alone; and as even the most solicitous affection could not find grounds for anxiety in the sprain, with a few more sympathetic words, he followed geoffrey, who was chafing to be gone. the latter, indeed, might have appeared somewhat cold and unsympathetic in contrast with mr. francis and his repeated lamentations; but his "bad luck, harry!" and harry's grunt in reply, had something of telegraphic brevity, not misunderstood.
in spite of his protestations that he was no more than an indifferent shot, it soon appeared that mr. francis was more than a decently capable performer with the gun, and his keenness and accuracy as a sportsman were charmingly combined with the knowledge and observation of a naturalist. he pointed out to his companion several rare and infrequent birds which they saw during the morning, and implored the keeper that they might not be shot for curiosities.
"half the time i am shooting," he said to geoffrey, "i am of a divided mind. is it not a[pg 32] shame to kill these beautiful and innocent things? i often wonder—ah!" up went his gun, and a high pheasant was torn from the sky, leaving a few light neck feathers floating there.
"and even while the words are in my mouth, i go and contradict my sentiments," he said, ejecting the smoking cartridge. "what a bundle of incongruous opposites is a man!"
they shot for not more than a couple of hours after lunch, for the sun set early, and mr. francis confessed to a certain unreasonable desire to get home quickly and see how harry had fared.
"indeed, i was half minded to stay with him in spite of his wish," he said, "for the hours will have been lonely to him. but he is like all the vails—self-reliant, and beholden to no one."
they were crossing the last meadow before they should again reach the garden, and, even as he spoke, a hare got up from its form in the tussocky grass not more than ten yards from them and scuttled noiselessly, head down, across the field. geoffrey had already taken the cartridges from his barrel, and mr. francis raised his gun to his shoulder, hesitated a moment, and then fired. he hit the beast just as it gained the fence of the cover from which they had come; they saw it bowled over, and drag on a pace or two into cover; then suddenly, from where it had disappeared, there came a screaming horribly human. mr. francis paused, then turned quite pale, and geoffrey, seeing his stricken face, imagined he thought that he had wounded a beater.
[pg 33]
"it is only the hare," he said; "the men were all out two minutes ago."
mr. francis turned to him.
"only the hare!" he cried; "yes, only the hare! how dreadful, how dreadful! i have wounded it," and he started off running to where the beast had been last seen, and disappeared in the cover.
geoffrey sent a couple of beaters to assist in the search, but himself went on to the house, wondering a little at the inconsistency which would allow a man to shoot at a hare running straight away in a bad light, and yet send him hot foot after it when wounded. yet the inconsistency was pleasing; keenness was responsible for the doubtful shot, an indubitable horror of causing an animal pain prompted the pursuit of it. he found harry lying up, his ankle somewhat severely sprained, but it no longer pained him, and he asked after his uncle.
"just at the last moment he shot a hare, wounding it," he said, "and ran back to try to recover it. he will be in at once, i should think."
but half an hour passed, yet still he did not come, and harry was already wondering what could have happened, when he appeared, all smiles again.
"dear lad, have you had a very tedious day?" he asked. "the thought of you has been constantly in my mind. i should have been in half an hour ago with geoffrey, but i wounded a hare, and had to go and look for it. thank god,[pg 34] i found it. the poor beast was quite dead. but it screamed: it was terrible, terrible!"
there was a good piano, by bechstein, standing in the hall, and that evening, after dinner, as harry lay on the sofa nursing his injury, while his uncle sitting by him recalled a hundred little reminiscences of his own young years which he had spent here, geoffrey, who was an accurate performer of simple tunes, played idly and softly to himself, listening half to his own music, half to the talk of the others. now he would indicate some graceful, inevitable fragment of bach, now a verse of some chevalier song, all with a tinkling, elementary technic, but with a certain facility of finger and decided aptitude for the right notes. by degrees, as this went on, a kind of restlessness gained on mr. francis; he would break off in the middle of a story to hum a bar of the tune geoffrey was playing, beating time to it with a waving hand, or turn round in his chair to say over his shoulder: "a graceful melody, my dear boy; please play us that again."
but before long this restlessness grew more emphatic, and at last he jumped nimbly out of his chair.
"i must fetch my flute," he exclaimed, "i must positively fetch my flute. i play but indifferently, as you will hear, but it is such a pleasure to me! what a charming instrument is the flute, so pastoral; the nearest thing we know to the song of birds! be indulgent, my dear geoffrey, to the whim of an old fellow, and play some easy[pg 35] accompaniments for me. i have a quantity of little pieces for the flute by corelli and baptiste."
he hurried to the door, and they heard his step quickly crossing the gallery above. in a few moments he reappeared again, a little out of breath, but with a beaming face. he fitted his flute together with affectionate alacrity, turned to the piano, and opened a volume of easy minuets and sarabands.
"there, this one," he said; "it is a breath of heaven, a real breath of heaven. you have two bars of introduction. ah! a shade slower, my dear boy; it is an antique measure, you must remember. graceful, leisurely. yes, that is exactly right."
he knew the music by heart, and when once they were fairly started, turned from the piano toward harry. his cheerful, ruddy face composed itself into an expression of beatific content, his eyes were half closed, the eyebrows a little raised, and his body swayed gently to the rhythm of the tune. the formal delicacy of the composition enthralled him; perhaps it brought with it the aroma of his youth, the minuets he had danced fifty years ago, perhaps it was only the sweet and certain development of the melody which so moved him. at the end, in any case, he could not quite command his voice, and he patted geoffrey gently on the shoulder by way of thanks.
"the next," he said; "we can not pass by the next. the two are complete only together."
they played then some half dozen little pieces,[pg 36] ending with a quick ripple of a gavotte, to put them in good spirits again, so said mr. francis; and at the last he lovingly packed up his flute again and left it on the piano, saying that they must be very indulgent to him and let him play again.
two or three days after this, harry was sufficiently recovered to be able to go out again, though still limpingly, and it was arranged that they should shoot certain of the covers near the house which might be expected to furnish them with a good day's sport, and at the same time would entail but little walking. the frost had, twenty-four hours ago, completely broken before a warm and violent wind from the southwest, and the dead leaves which had lain in glued and compacted heaps were once more driven about in scurrying multitudes. the sky was low and ominous, a rack of torn and flying cloud, and scudding showers fell ever and again. but the sport was excellent, and they little heeded the angry fretfulness of the heavens.
their beats took them at no time far from the house, and they returned there for lunch, but by this time the weather had grown so vastly more inclement that mr. francis cried off the resumption of the day; but harry, eager for out-of-doors after his two days' imprisonment, persuaded geoffrey to come out again. the rain was a steady downpour in the slackened wind, but his argument that they were not made of paper carried weight.
they returned, drenched indeed, but with a[pg 37] satisfactory report of themselves and the birds, to find mr. francis performing very contentedly on his flute before the hall fire. but he jumped up briskly as they appeared.
"dear boys, how wet you are!" he cried. "of course, you will change your clothes at once, will you not? and i should recommend a glass of hot whisky and water. shall i ring the bell? i told templeton to see that there was abundance of hot water for your baths."
this incessant solicitude of his uncle, however clearly arising from affection, was on the way to get on harry's nerves and arouse opposition. at any rate, the suggestion that he should guard against a chill predisposed him not to be in any hurry to go upstairs.
"oh, tea first," he said, not meaning it; "one can change afterward.—are you going now, geoff? ring the bell as you pass, will you?"
a positive cloud dimmed the brightness of mr. francis's face.
"dear boy, you are being horribly imprudent," he said; "do let me persuade you to change at once."
this drove determination home. harry was unpleasantly conscious of the clinging flabbiness of soaking clothes, but had their touch shaken him with an ague it would not have moved him from his chair. he intended to do that which he chose to do.
"oh, i'm all right, uncle francis," he said. "i never catch cold."
[pg 38]
tea came, and harry ate and drank with studied leisure, and conversed politely to his uncle. already he felt the premonitory prickling of the skin which precedes a chill, but it was nearly half an hour before he lounged upstairs. he did not intend to be fussed over and treated like a child; the advice to go and change had been so obviously sensible that it should never have been offered, and to the contrariness of youth was impossible to accept. thus the well-meant but ill-timed counsel drove him into an opposite.
again, after dinner, the evening was melodious with the breathings of mr. francis's flute, but the childlike pleasure which the performer had taken before in his own performance was sensibly dimmed. he played with a wandering attention and an uncertain finger, without the gusto of the artist, and his eye ever rested anxiously on harry, who had more than once complained of the cold, and now sat huddled up by a mountainous fire, bright-eyed and with a burning skin, which seemed to him to cover an interior of ice. at last mr. francis could stand it no longer, and laying down his flute came across to where he sat, and with an extraordinary amenity of voice, yet firmly——
"i insist on your going to bed, harry," he said. "you have caught a chill; it is idle to deny it. dear lad, do not be so foolish. i have troubled and worried you, i am afraid, with my fussy care for you, and i am very sorry for it. but do not make a bad matter worse, and do[pg 39] not punish me, i ask you, as well as yourself, for my ill-timed suggestions. i have apologized; be generous."
harry got up. it was impossible that a mere superficial boyish obstinacy, of which he was already ashamed, should stand out against this, and besides he felt really unwell.
"yes, i am afraid i have caught a chill," he said. "it was foolish of me not to change as you advised me when i came in. it was even more foolish of me to have been annoyed at your excellent suggestion that i should."
mr. francis's face brightened.
"now get to bed at once, my dear boy," he said, "and i have no doubt you will be all right in the morning. you have plenty of blankets? good-night."
but harry was by no means all right in the morning, and it seemed that for his uncle the joy of life was dead. there was no brisk early walk for him to-day. vail was no longer a hungry place, and his breakfast was but the parody of a meal. unreasonably, he blamed himself for his nephew's indisposition, and the morning passed for him in blank turnings over of the leaves of undecipherable books, in reiterated visits to the kitchen with suggestions as to a suitable invalid diet, and disconnected laments to geoffrey over this untoward occurrence.
"ah! this will teach a foolish old man to hold his tongue," he said. "it will teach him, also, that old fellows can not understand the young.[pg 40] how excellent were my intentions, but how worse than impotent, how disastrous! it is a cold job to grow old, geoffrey; it is even colder to grow old and still feel young. poor harry simply thought me a meddling old fogy when i wanted him to take precautions against catching a chill, and i ought to have known that he would think me so. i forget my white hairs. how are you, my dear boy, this morning? i hope you have not a chill, too? i am anxious and unsettled to-day."
"oh, harry was an ass," said the other. "but there's nothing at all to be anxious about. he has a chill, rather a sharp one, and, with greater wisdom than he showed yesterday, he stops in bed. is that punch there? thank you very much."
mr. francis walked to the window, lit a cigarette, and threw it away, barely tasted.
"i wonder if harry would like me to read to him," he said.
geoffrey looked up with an arrested smile.
"i think i should leave him quite alone," he said. "i've just been up to him. he's as cross as a bear, and wouldn't speak to me. so i came away."
"but that is so unlike him!" said mr. francis. "he must be ill, he must be really ill."
geoffrey began to understand harry's feelings the day before.
"if i were you i wouldn't fuss either him or myself," he said. "people don't die of a cold in the head."
"shall i send for the doctor?" asked mr. francis. "we might tell harry that he happened to call about some case of distress in the village, and wished to consult him about it. then we could get his opinion. i think, under the circumstances, one might venture on so small an equivocation."
geoffrey closed his punch.
"i shouldn't do anything of the kind if i were you," he said. "what an abominable morning! i'll play some accompaniments for you, if you like."
"thank you, my dear boy," said mr. francis, "but i haven't the heart to play this morning. besides, harry might be dozing; we should run the risk of disturbing him."
