OUR SHORT STORY.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXV, Issue 2218, 23 October 1907, Page 6 (Supplement)

OUR SHORT STORY.

“RONNY.”

(By 11. X. Dickinson, in "Ga-stsellV ) \\V left school in 1899, and lie was .shot in South Africa two years later, lie. I! onuy, my old ehuiu and schoolfellow, ho re a n. line famous in Scotland and in England too. Ho and his brother were orphans. I have often stayed with them in ,their Scottish home, where they and their mother lived together. She would talk to me—she stilt does —of the happiness of their homo and the delightful affection of the hoys. She did not know, as 1 did, how much unore than mere affection bound the brothers to each other. It on liy used to e ill his brother and himself “The Firm.” He was the elder, and knew himself to he the senior partner. His heart's longing and desire, known to me ami Ito young Duncan, native in his blood and with him from the mistiest days of childhood, was for the Finn to will .success and build up anew the great name it carried. I could tell stories —to their mother I tell them still—of the niiii.v wondrous things they were to accomplish in the world. Ideas took shape. iKouny was to fight on land, and Duncan on the sea, till a tield-marslial and an admiral could gaze upon a splendid past and rejoice in the light of glory that they had thrown round the name of their fathers. But this is a story of school-days. We were seventeen, Bonny and I. The time is strangely little distant from the present, when one thinks of the many things that have happened since those days.

On a summer morning I went to him in his room to discuss the affairs of that famous day. I saw him slam the drawer of his table. In his customary way he drew himsePl to his full height, threw up his held, and put his hands in his pockets. His eyes met mine aggressively ns ever, and he made some facetious speech. But he was pale. His cheeks and lips were white, and I was annoyed at this, though not surprised. 'Palo ho might well bo on this day of crisis, yet it was not usual for him to show emotions of that kind. Tin's was the day when the final of the house fours were to be rowed, when our house was to head the river, the first time for years. We bad won in the heats, and to-day we were to win the final race. Upon Bonny was the strain of it, andupon him would be the glory. He stroked our boat. He was its life and soul, and the critics found him unassailable. He set- a stroke that was tho wonder of the school. All this lie did for the honor of his name, while Duncan was a midshipman faraway, and did it though his form was spare and slim, his weight small, his whole appearance widely different from that of the typical athlete or rowing man. If he was pale and tense to-

da.v, it was natural. Yet I was annoyed. 1 did not tell him of it, for l n ils ever a wise guardian where lie was concerned. I gave him chaff, nonsense lor nonsense, fill the lire of his spirit reached my heart, and in spite of anxiety and painful excitement 1 was gay and merry like •himself.

We were nearly dtie at dinner. Non - , as usual, his mind u-as wiltlly. active. From genial chaff ho pissed lightly to business, and shot out his instructions. Like King Bichard in the play, he deluged mo with last commands bdfore tho battle. I was to say this thing to ono, that to another; to watch the conduct ol persons A and B, give messages to C and D, tell Johnny Long that Bonny could not possibly have tea with him to-iUorroM". Those things on tho table 1 Was to put in Fournier's letter-box on my way ito cricket.

We walked together into the din-ing-hall, late and dignified. Mine was the dignity of age and standing, but in him was the added magnificence of a light, slim figure, wondrowdy erect, and an uncompromising insolence of hearing. From tho stiffness of public life he melted, as we sat down, to a beaming graciousness, idiotic merriment, pure human liveliness of a hoy among hoys. I ■thought the race Mas on his mind, but it did not,cheek his concentrated iloM- of nonsense. It happened once that they talked of something that did not catch his interest, and I said to myself, the race, the race. For lie was pale again, and anxiously strained in his oppression. “Tho Poet,” our good lionseifiaster, wus looking at him then, reading anxiety, like me. Next it was of the Poet that they talked. It was no good, they said, this playful plan of the bright youth next to Bonny. He could never do it. Did not the Poet sleep with the key under liis pillow ? “Under liis pillow 1 No,” said Bonny, suddenly aroused, leaning forn'a rd and flashing with liis teeth, smiling liis most engaging of smiles. “No; lie ties it on to liis big toe!” Let no ono criticise the humor who did not know tho humorist. Our u ays parted, for even on me, a dilettante cricketer, duty had some call that afternoon, and so iny narrative breaks off- But lam sure that Bonny carried himself as usual, that he su-aggored dowli to tho livei like a conquering highland, chieftain, defiant of the outside world and frollicking like a spoilt pet among liis friends, mocking at 'authority, perhaps, or spouting impromptu parodies of certain gems of verseaml prose. I never heard anything to the contrary, and there were more ■than one M'ho. Mould have marked it had liis spirits lacked their buoyancy or his legs their majestic strut. Appearances and the honor of the Firm were saved; yet I u*as ceitain that an unaccustomed stress had hold of him.

The Poet thought so, too. At itli the Poet I walked down to the river later in the day to see the race, and lie talked of Bonny. “AVas lie overanxious?” he asked. “AV'as lie m c.II ? AVas lie sleeping prfipcrly, in good spirits, free from any trouble?” I ■asked the cause of these inquiries. “The boy is living on liis nerves,” he answered, “and were tile race not coming off to-day I should be anxious for liis health. Mind you 'keep a sharp watch on him lor the next day or two,”

I am not concerned n itlli tho circumstances of tho race. There was excitement for us all, blit there Mas an added thrill for me. There Mere, all around me, as mo stood and as mo ran, faces of boys in great eagerness, faces ugly and halids-onio and dark and fair. There wero others ■besides Bonny rowing their hearts out, and M’ontliy to be Matched. But I bud eyes and thoughts mainly for him. ''AVit'll sufficient knowledge to appreciate the .matchless prettiness of his style, to delight in the extraordinary pace he set, I ins principally occupied in marking how lie seemed different from the others, far slighter in build, lighter, less muscular, carrying on with, a strength that Mas more of will and nerve than of sinew or physical po-M-er. AYe won, of course, and of course it had been Bonny’s doing from beginning to end. Everyone knew that, had known it for weeks past. Tho end of a boat-race is certainly not a very alluring sight, though it has something that is interesting to anyone who cares for tho points aqd mef/t.lo of the human animal. It distressed an old gentleman nho Mas ne.tr mo ns Ave stood yelling and cheering on the bank. He spoke to me, when he could he heard, about ten years coming off one’s life and other similar misfortunes. Ho pointed to Bonny as an instance, among others. He said he did not look fit for these exertions. Ho remarked on his nitititlido of collapse, the distressing heaving of his body, the discomfort, to say tho least, of his expression. Some others had thrown their heads right hack, and some had fallen forward on their oai'6. But I triumphed over my lugubrious friend nlieu our four suddenly drew themselves up and paddled off amid fresh cheering. I went presently to the rafts, Wishing to find Bonny and the others and scatter congratulations. The four M-ero changing their clothes, and Bonny Mas in .tumultuous spirits. Clearly tho race had not been too much for him. As the Poet M'as loitering outside, I went and told him of this, and ,for some time mo stood together talking of tho victory. AYe discussed tho house supper there was to ho in celebration of the event, and presently I returned to the four. I Mas puzzled.

Bonny, already changed, Mas standing apart from itho others, with liis hands in liis pockets, looking absolutely blank and dazed. 'His eyes wore fixed on nothing. His mouth liung open. It was tlio expression that I had seen for a moment at dinner. I siioko to him, and instantly lie u-oke up and swung round on his heel and said something. cheery enough. Ho looked thruogh the doorway and sum' lots of people coining in. He Mas altogether himself again. On our way back to tho house—and it Mas a real triumphal progress —'lie carried all .before him. Everyone’s congratulations he met with the serenesit graciousness. He expected applause; he got it; lie accepted it; lie obviously liked it. He

■did not attempt to say that tho suceeos Mils everybody’s doing but lii< on - n. AYe overtook a couple of liil'ifellows of the loner school, one of u-liom Mills a cousin of Bonny’s, nn.l .Bonny took hold of his elbow air! brought hi,m along with us in -.1 e face of the world. I think t' at Miina 11 action will not fall in to oblivion this side of the grave. Jlist before the house-supper, 1 found him alone in his room, with his face very clean and his hair very carefully brushed.

“Bonny, you arc absolutely dead heat,” I said.

“Am I?” ho muttered, daze] and abstracted.

Tilio next instant ho burst info a ■torrent of furious abuse that as to noshed me. Ho was a grant master of abuse. Give him the icon!an and lie u-ould level it at high and low noth all his snorting cnc-gy. So ■much bad my observation a'.oyod him that fie marched out of the room ms though I had been a presuming junior master daring to rebuke him, and lie Mas still a picture of insolent defiance as sve uenit in to supper in the hall.

This was the zenith of iiis career at school. He was central figure and distributor of honor and the focus of all eyes. If an ambitious schoolboy unlisted a glorious jnrfc to play, I suppose be could not Lave found a better than Bonny s I; Mould have been a terrible pity if he had been weary, or sulky, or contemptuous. But lie certainly uns not. Among my speculations I gave ■most credit to the idea that lie had bad severe toothache all day long, ■and did not want to show- it. He was just as wildly gay and fatuously imbecile as I could wish. His wit was well up to its mark. He kept u.s laughing ait his mimicry, expostulating with him about liis imprudent remarks, howling down liis ob-servations-oil the Poet’s guests, yet egging him on to more and worse excesses. This was all as it should have been, but what I noticed was the ceaselessness of it. He never stopped or rested. If lie found himself for one moment unemployed, lie seemed to be itching to bo off again. It was not natural.

At the cml of the meal the Poet proposed liis health. Bonny made a little speech in reply, quite regardless of tho low mockery which was unkindly levelled at him by us who were sitting near. ;I am afraid lie had little of the ingenious modesty of youth. Ho spoke .without the slightest diffidence or hesitation. He said tho house hud liad a great triumph. It had not had such ail honor since the new bath-rooms were put in last year. \A r e sang songs, gleefully followed the Poet’s example in smashing our glasses, and the party broke up. There was then a merry gathering in Bonny’s room, and his spirits here again were splendid. There were others present, not of our immediate circle, and to them lie was engagingly gracious, as was ahvays liis May when lie met them face to face. AA’e made a tour round the house collecting bits of paper, unbending our dignity to great and small alike. All the house knew then what it was to be near our hero. They could see him in his mood of effusive geniality, and perhaps that night some jealous ones forgave him for the arrogant insolence of liis week-day bearing. Beturning to liis room, u-e piled tho paper on tlio table land ■made a bonfire of it, dancing round ait band in ha ml.

That was t.lio end of the day of Bonny’s greatness. Tlio crowd gradually dispersed. Some half-dozen fellows stayed for a time, and if they were lively, if they were cheerful and boisterous and loud, they were not more so than he. But it was time for them to go to bed, and one by one they went away. Surely the venerable timbers of that house have never cracked and shaken to a scene more splendid. If future generations have it in them to acquire something of the joy and spirit we let lqpse that night on the •atmosphere of the place, they will do well.

The last of the boys had gone, and ■they would be in bed more or less within the time-limit set by authority. But my part was to stay a little longer. Bonny’s chum was obliged to put other claims before those of school rules, if ho would have peace and satisfaction. He must also take the consequences with Konny’s unfailing equanimity. I remained sitting in the window, and I watched him leaning his straight back against the mantelpiece—ithe hero whose rest was won. He was flushed, and had an unnatural blazing brightness in his eyes. Hbw tired ho would he to-morrow!

Mv heart heat hard, my blo.od surged as I watched him, victorious not only over liis rivals on the water, hut over every circumstance of tlio day. All along a blatant personal pride had possessed me as I thought of him, and of what elso had I thought that day? Was I not the friend of the hero, and was not prido my portion? But now I was humble, and from prido I melted to utter admiration. I was sorry for bis obvious exhaustion: I could not sco a reason for it, and yet it madly pleased me. For I asked nvyself; wliat thing it was upon earth that would cause those eyes to lliuch, or' how that head, or make those lips say die. Lord ! what scenes imagination used to fashion in my lonely ■hours with my hero in the midst! But I was not altogether a heartless sentimentalist-. He would hate it if I spoke about bis health again. But there were other filings. I

knew that a word from me would give more pleasure—a different sort of pleasure—than all the plaudits of our little world. There was the family, the Firm, and the sailor boy Duncan, who was far away. Of Duncan I would speak last of all, as I left the room, and Bonny should go to his bed to the music of that dearest wattle under the sun. All this I did, while lie answered shortly and crisply. Was he pleas cd ? AVas he too much tired to unj joy congratulations from his ehumH Why, his exhaustion was increasing’ every minute. 1 was alarmed. Tile brightness was quickly vanishing from his eyes. Bailor came on his cheeks. Heavy dullness overspread his face. He sat down on the roundbacked chair, and crossed bis anils on the- tilde ill front of him. My hot imagination seemed to see lilies marking themselves on liis face, yet still he held up his head and clearly and steadily watched me as he listened. Gaiety had deserted him, though sheer endurance lasted. I resolved to leave him quickly, and let him go to bed. I had thoughts of the matron and of brandy. ’’To-morrow,” I said, “I’m going to write and tell Duncan all about-

it. I’ll make a better story of it than you Mould, you know.” Ilis head had dropped a little, but as I. mentioned Duncan he tossed it tip again, and again there u-as a spark of brightness in liis eyes. He roughly opened the drawer of the tabic—the drawer I had seen him shut as I entered the room that morning. He brought out a letter in bis mother’s writing, and threw it to mo. And he Matched me, pale, grim, defiant, as I read it, till tho last fragment of its meining u-as beaten oil my mind, and I looked at him again.

Then, when indeed night Oiad fallen and the last echo of tlio battle M-as silent, when be had won fame for tho family, honor for the Firm, victory for his house, and glory for tlio Being who rejoices in thestrength and spirit of his master-works — then, having held out until tin's utmost limit, liis back was boM-ed and ■ilis eyes flinched at last, Ill’s lips parted in silent misery, and his head felt foru-ard on liis amis.

Duncan, too, had had his day of greatness. Ho had led a little slave expedition on the coast of. Africa, so tlieir mother’s letter told me, and had done no less well than. Bonny, and liad been killed.