Left to Themselves: Being the Ordeal of Philip and Gerald. Edward Prime-Stevenson
a pretty old school.”
And then came interrogations as to what pupils or teachers had been there in Philip’s school-days.
To Gerald, who was quite wide awake to reflections upon a good many more problems than thinkers of his age often pause over, already there seemed to be something like a mystery hanging around this young Touchtone. He made up his mind that his new friend did not appear a shade out of place this morning driving around a hotel-wagon after butter and eggs from the farms. But he also decided if he should meet Philip in a tennis-suit with a group of the most “aristocratic” lads of Murray Hill, or see him marching about the floor at some crowded “reception” given by the school, why, Touchtone would look just as much in his proper surroundings—only more so. While he was assenting to these ideas something else occurred to make the younger boy puzzled about the older one.
A buggy came spinning along the road to meet them. From the front leaned out a young man, ten or twelve years older than Touchtone, wearing a brown beard. He checked his horse as he approached and called out some words that Gerald at once knew were German. Philip laughed and answered them in the same language quite as fluently. The occupant of the buggy—Gerald rightly supposed him the young German doctor that lived in the village—began quite a chat with Touchtone entirely in German. Both spoke so rapidly that Gerald found his study of the language at the Talmage School did not help him to catch more than an occasional “ja” or “nein.”
The young doctor rode on.
“How well you must know German,” said Gerald, admiringly. “Did you learn it across the water?” the boy added, half in joke.
“Yes,” responded Touchtone, to the astonishment of the other lad. “I learned it in Hanover, when I was there, before we lived near New York.”
Gerald happened to glance at Philip’s face. It was oddly red, and his voice sounded strangely. All this time, too, there was certainly one particular person to whom he had not so much as referred. But after Gerald had bethought himself of this omission and put his next question he would have given a great deal not to have uttered it. The regret did not come until he had asked Philip point-blank:
“I think you said that your—your father was dead, didn’t you? Was that after you came back?”
Philip made no reply. A blush reddened his frank face painfully. His pleasant expression had given place to an angry look. He gave unoffending Nebuchadnezzar a sharp cut with the long whip, as if to conceal mortification in showing his feelings, whatever they arose from, to a comparative stranger. He looked away from Gerald’s startled blue eyes toward the flag-crowned gables of the Ossokosee House, that now were in full sight, as the wagon turned into one of the graveled avenues leading to the kitchen.
“My father died after we came home,” he said, as if he had to face himself to speak of something that he could hardly bear to think of. “I was born in Germany, and lived there until we sailed.”
“I—I beg your pardon,” said Gerald, blushing in his turn.
“What for?”
“Because I think I asked you something that—that there was no reason for me to be told.”
“O, don’t mention it,” returned Touchtone. He recovered his self-possession so curiously lost. “It is just as well that you did, I rather believe. Some day, perhaps, I can explain about it to you. No harm done. Pompey! Pompey!” he called out in his pleasant voice to a tall servant walking across the back piazza of the dining-room. “Come here, please, and help take some of these things to Mrs. Ingraham’s store-room. If you will wait a moment,” he continued, to Gerald, “I’ll walk around to the front with you. I want to see Mr. Marcy.”
The contents of the wagon were disposed of among the servants. Nebuchadnezzar set out by himself for the stables, at a word of command from Philip.
On the front steps were some groups chatting, reading, writing, or watching the nearer of two games of tennis, played at a little distance, out upon the wide lawn. The Ossokosee was to close for the season within about a fortnight, and only the uncommon heat of the September weather kept it still fairly full.
“Halloa, Philip!” called Mr. Marcy from the desk. The office inclosure was a handsome addition to the hall, with its cheerful stained glass, carved railings, rows of letter and key boxes and bell signals. “Where did you light upon that young gentleman? I’m not sorry, Gerald. Your father has left you in my charge, and you’re too heavy a responsibility. I think I’ll turn you over to Philip there. You might make a pretty fair guardian, Philip.”
“All right,” returned Gerald, gayly. “I say, guardian,” he continued, turning with mischievous eyes to Touchtone, “can’t you come up to my room after you get through your luncheon? Harry Dexter and I are going down to the lake at four o’clock to see them practice for the regatta. But we’ll have plenty of time first.”
“I am going to the lake myself,” said Philip. “I belong to the Ossokosee crew that rows, you know.”
“O, yes; so you do. Then we can all go together. You’ll come, wont you?” And he seemed so anxious that Touchtone answered, “Yes,” and “Thank you,” at once.
Philip turned into the office, where he began giving the gentlemen there the history of the battle at Wooden’s Ravine. “Served him right, Philip!” heartily exclaimed the genial book-keeper, Mr. Fisher, on hearing of the stick throwing, “and you’ll find that little fellow a youngster worth your knowing.”
Meantime Gerald was running lightly up the broad, smoothly polished oak stairs and entering the room that the father had engaged for his son’s use. Not being able, or thinking he was not, to have the boy with him in Nova Scotia, he had wished to make Gerald as luxuriously comfortable as a lad could be. The gay Ossokosee House had, nevertheless, a perfectly new interest to Gerald now. The little boy had been welcomed by a good many of the guests stopping there. There were a few of his own age that had been his chums, for want of others. But now that he had met Touchtone things began to look all at once more enjoyable.
And what could be the reason that so open-hearted and jolly a companion should be so alone in the world, and feel so terribly cut, and blush in that embarrassed fashion because of a simple question concerning his father?
Philip came up to Number 45 in due time that afternoon. He looked over Gerald’s foreign photographs and his coin collection. And so the time sped on, and interest in the acquaintance mutually prospered.
The next day they did not meet until after supper. Mr. Marcy had only three or four letters he wished Philip to write. When these were finished he and Gerald walked out into the hotel grounds, talking of the coming regatta and feeling quite like old companions. Two crews only were to row—the Ossokosee Boat Club and the Victory Rowing Association—and much interest was attached to the race. Mr. Marcy had offered a prize of two hundred dollars to the winners, and, furthermore, the Ossokosee Club were determined not to be beaten for the fourth year. The last three regattas had resulted, one after another, in the triumph of the elated Victors. Philip was a zealous member of the Ossokosees, and found it hard work to keep in any kind of training, what with his duties at the hotel. But then the whole affair was not so “professional” as it might have been, and Touchtone’s natural athletic talents and Mr. Marcy’s indulgence helped him to pull his oar as skillfully and enduringly as any other of the six.
Gerald listened with all his ears to his friend’s account of their last year’s defeat. All at once Philip remembered a message for Mrs. Ingraham about the flowers from the conservatory.
“Please stand here by the arbor one moment?” he asked. “I’ll just run to the dining-room and find her.”
Now, there was a long rustic seat outside the thick growth of vines, running over the same arbor. Gerald sat down upon this bench. Some guests of the house were grouped inside, conversing together. No secrets were being told. Gerald did not feel himself an eavesdropper. In fact, he did not pay any heed to the talking going on just back of his head until he heard a slow voice that was a certain General Sawtelle’s.