Jack Raymond

Little as it mattered, there was a certain consolation in getting well. People left off fidgetting about, and sitting in the room, and asking, "Does your head ache?" and, "Did I hurt you?" Indeed, when Dr. Jenkins said, "He's all right now; he only needs to get strong again," Aunt Sarah and every one else seemed to feel a sense of relief in being able to avoid him. They still treated him as an invalid; arranged the sofa-cushions carefully, and dosed him at stated intervals with tonics and beef tea; but other­wise they left him alone. Molly he saw now and then for a moment, a scared, shy creature in a pinafore, staring at him timidly from behind tangled curls; she had caught the sense of horror and of secrecy about the house, and co

Out of apathy and blankness he passed into dull curiosity. His mind, that had stopped as a clock stops in an earthquake, stirred again reluctantly, but only to move round and round in one small circle, a lethargic bondslave stumbling through care­less repetitions of a task without a meaning.

Always and always it was the same riddle: the underlying co

Fragments overheard, in far-off days before the mavis flew away, of whispered conversa­tions between schoolmates who had seemed to him boys like himself; phrases from the Bible, read so often that the sequence of their words had grown familiar, while yet they had no meaning; chance things seen on neigh­bouring dairy farms; scraps of old stories from the Latin Reader; the photographs which had shown him what all these things were, came back and ranged themselves be­fore his understanding. Also he remembered the look on his uncle's face that last night in the gable room, and the faint foreshadowing of that same look when their eyes had met above the helpless dog in the stable yard.

Such a face, surely, Tarquin had worn by the bedside of Lucrece.

On the last Sunday in the month Dr. Jenkins called at the Vicarage. Afternoon service was over, but the family had not yet returned from church. He found Jack alone, lying on the couch beside the window, staring out across the rain swept moorland with wide, hopeless eyes.

Like every one else, the doctor had taken the truth of the accusations for granted, and until now he had felt toward the boy only a cold and impersonal pity; but at this mo­ment he forgot everything except the desire to comfort

"Don't you think," he said presently, "that you would get on better away from home?"

Something stiffened in the tragic face.

"Yes; that's why uncle won't let me go."

It was said without any hysterical bitter­ness, simply as a statement of a fact.

"Have you spoken to him about it?"

"I asked him whether I might go to school in some other part of the country."

"And he objects?"

"Of course."

"Jack," said the doctor after a pause, "do you understand why your uncle does not let you go?"

"I never supposed he would," Jack an­swered quietly, "when he can have the fun of keeping me here. Did you ever watch him train a puppy? Uncle likes to see anything kick."

His tone made the doctor shudder; it was so still and murderous. A little silence followed, while the man frowned thoughtfully and the boy returned to his hopeless scrutiny of the wet landscape.

"I believe," Dr. Jenkins said at last, "I could persuade him."

"Of course you could; you know too much."

"Look here, my boy, I don't like cynics, even grown-up ones. Suppose I were to speak for you?"

Jack's mouth set itself in a harder line.

"Why should you? What is it to you?"

"Nothing; except that I see you are un­happy, and am sorry for you."

Jack turned suddenly, sitting bolt upright; and some hidden thing leaped up in his eyes.

"D'you mean you want to help me?"

"If I can," the doctor answered, perplexed and very grave.

Jack was crushing his hands together fiercely; his voice sounded hoarse and broken. "Then get me out of this! Get me away somewhere, so I shan't see uncle any more. I... can't go on here... you don't understand, of course; I'll keep on as long as I can, but I shan't be able to stand it much longer..."

His speech faded out suddenly, like a gusty wind dying down. The doctor looked at him, wondering.

"Let us be open with each other, boy," he said at last. "I know all this has been hard on you — brutally hard; and I'm more sorry for you than I can say. I believe if your uncle had begun by trusting you instead of... well, never mind that. Anyway, suppose we try trusting you now. Most likely the real reason he won't let you go to school is that he's afraid you... won't be a good com­panion for the boys you'll meet there. Isn't that..?"

Looking round to put the question, he stopped short; the boy was watching him silently, with a look that caught his breath to see; a cold, secret, steady look from under lowered eyelids.

"You think that's why?" There had been a little pause; but at the sound of Jack's voice the doctor recovered himself and asked gravely:

"Don't you?"

The boy let his eyes fall slowly; he had realised that Dr. Jenkins understood nothing.

"Did he tell you any reason?" the doctor persisted. Again there was a perceptible pause.

"He said he must keep the curse to himself and not let it loose on others,"' Jack answered in his apathetic, passive way, as if speaking of strangers.

"I thought so. Now, a friend of mine is headmaster of a good school in Yorkshire; and I think, if I talk the thing over with your uncle, he'll let me recommend you to him on my own responsibility. It will be a heavy responsibility, Jack, after what has happened; but I should just make up my mind to trust you. You wouldn't make me regret that, would you?"

A sullen fire was begi

"You see, my boy, I must think of the others too. If any little fellow came to ruin through you, and it was my fault, I should never forgive myself."

"Then why should I go to a good school, if I'm so bad?" Jack broke in. "I've had enough of good people. Surely there's some one in the world that's bad enough already not to be harmed by coming near me? Why should I go to school at all? I'd rather begin and earn my own bread. I'm strong enough, and I..." He broke off, and then added with a little laugh: "I shan't be too partic­ular. I'll go as cabin-boy on a slaver if you like, so uncle isn't there."

"Come, my lad, that's nonsense," the doctor gently remonstrated. "Think it over, and just give me your promise that you'll turn over a new leaf and give up all those habits, and I'll ------"

Jack wrenched his hand savagely away.

"I'll promise nothing. I'll find a way out myself."

"I'm sorry, Jack," said Dr. Jenkins gravely. "You'd have done better to let me help you."

He had no chance to say any more, for the family returned from church, and Molly at once absorbed him. She was his best friend in Porthcarrick; he had conceived for her the peculiar kind of serious, fraternal affec­tion which lonely bachelors sometimes feel for a very i

Jack had relapsed into his usual sullen silence. Till tea was finished he scarcely spoke.