Promising (Hope)

by Anthony Hope

Promising

By Anthony Hope.

IN the early days of my University sojourn (it would be absurd to call it a career) I was considered promising. The Provost himself, when I went to breakfast with him on the last day of the summer term, was good enough to tell me so.

"The College," he remarked, "expects great things from you, Mr. Vansittart."

"I wish, sir," I rejoined, "that the College may not be wrong."

"With a little more application," he pursued, "a first-class is, in the opinion of the College, well within your reach."

I believe I blushed. The young lady sitting opposite to me flung up her eyelashes for a demure amused glance.

The Provost smiled kindly.

"Yes, you are a promising young man, Mr. Vansittart,"said he. "God bless my soul! It's ten o'clock, and the Vice-Chancellor is waiting for me!"

"Oh, Papa!" said the young lady opposite to me.

The Provost held out his hand; I clasped it; I believe that he supposed me to be going at the same time. He went; I remained.

"It is," I observed, with a profound sigh, "the last day of term."

"Yes," said the young lady.

"If," said I, "you were to come and unlock the gate at the bottom of your garden for me, I could reach my rooms that way."

"Would it be the shortest?" she asked.

"It will be much too short, anyhow," said I.

A few minutes later I sat down on a bench. Daisy stopped, looked doubtful, shook her head, sat down; we pursued the conversation which we had begun as we came along.

"Papa would never hear of it," she said.

"I should not wish him to—just yet," I observed. "But when I've taken my degree——"

"That's two years off—at least," she interrupted.

"What do you mean by 'at least'?" I asked, rather hurt.

"People don't always get things the first time they try."

"You're thinking of the first time I——?"

"No, I'm not," she cried, blushing amazingly, "I meant you'd probably be ploughed."

"I'm going to get a first," said I.

"Nonsense," said Daisy.

I drew a little nearer.

"You read the article?" I asked. "The fellow showed quite plainly that it could be done on three hundred—with careful management, you know."

"Daisy nodded sagaciously.

"And I don't see why I shouldn't have three hundred in—well, in about three years." I spoke as though three years were a moment of time.

"I shall be twenty," mused Daisy in an awestruck tone.

"It's not a bit too old," I cried.

"N—no, I suppose not," she conceded. "But it's a terribly long time, Dick."

A pause followed. I hammered my cap against the bench.

"It's a beast of a world," I burst out. "Why the deuce can't——? There's the Dean just got married!"

"The Dean must be forty," observed Daisy.

"He says he's twenty-nine," and we both laughed. (I happen to know, now, that the Dean spoke the truth.)

"Dick," said Daisy, in a wistful tone, "I wish you were rich like Mr. Franklin Ford."

"Ford's a beast," said I.

"I didn't say he wasn't that, Dick; but———"

"Of course, if money's what you want——"

"You know I don't; but I suppose there's no harm in wishing that we——"

I recovered my good temper; I always did when she said "we."

"I can make as much as he's got," said I, confidently.

"Oh, can you, Dick? How soon?"

I was not going to boast. Assuming a calm and wise air, I answered,

"By the time. I am thirty, anyhow."

Daisy's face fell woefully.

"Oh, thirty!" she moaned. Then she turned to me with a smile, saying,

"Never mind, Dick dear. We shan't want quite as much. Why he's got five thousand a year!"

"How do you know?"

"Mrs. Jackson told me so. Oh, what do you think, Dick? She said that if I liked I might—she said she was sure I might Where are you going, Dick?"

"If you're only going to tell me what that wretched old woman says, I'm going back to my rooms. What did she say?"

"I won't talk about it, if you don't——"

"Oh, what did she say?"

"Oh, well, why that Mr. Franklin Ford—(you'll break the corner of your cap in a minute, Dick)—only that Mr. Franklin Ford—(There, I knew you would—your cap's in an awful state, Dick—so is your gown)—only that Mr. Franklin Ford—Oh, how stupid you are, Dick! You know perfectly well what she said."

I flung the battered cap upon the bench, thrust my hands into my pockets, rested my chin on my necktie, and stared moodily at my toes. There was a long pause. Presently I felt the lightest touch on my arm: I took no notice. The touch grew more insistent.

"Poor boy!" said Daisy. "Dick, I told her I thought Mr. Ford horrid."

"Did you?" I cried, my hands flying from my pockets to—elsewhere.

"Yes, and she said I should know better as I got older. I don't see what she means. Of course, I couldn't tell her about you, or she'd have seen that my getting older couldn't make any difference. Oh, Dick, isn't it wonderful?"

"Yes," said I, soberly, for a look had passed in the blue eyes that seemed to me very wonderful.

Presently Daisy said in a low tone,

"I wish Papa wouldn't insist on going abroad all the Long. He says he can work better there."

"What does he want to work for?" cried I.

"I don't know," said she. "Dick, why don't you come abroad?"

It was a bitter moment. O dura paupertas!

"I've got no money," said I, with defiant bluntness.

Her breath caught half-way through a little laugh.

"Oh, you poor dear boy!" said she. "Never mind, Dick. It's only till October."

"Only!" said I, in tones a Hamlet might be proud of.

"Will it seem very long?" she asked, drooping her lashes.

"As if you didn't know!"

"Yes—but, Dick, I may like to be told all the same, you know."

So I told her, and æons on æons of weary waiting rose before us at the bidding of my words.

"And in all that time," she said, "are you sure you won't forget? Oh, well, then, I believe you won't. Think, Dick, what it will be when you come back! You must look out of your window all the first day—and perhaps I may come by."

"And look up?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps you'll have forgotten."

"Oh, Dick, that is horrid of you! I never forget my friends."

"Friends!" I echoed indignantly.

"Well, you know what I mean," said she, indulgently.

As she spoke, the great clock in the tower struck eleven. She sprang to her feet.

"Don't go," I urged. "Daisy, it's the last time."

"Oh, but I must; so must you."

She seemed resolute.

"Well, then, before you go, promise!" I urged.

"But I have promised. Well then, yes, I promise, Dick."

"You'll think of no one else the whole time?"

"No—of of no one else."

"Not of that fellow, Franklin F——?"

"Dick! I told you I hated him. Aren't you going to promise, too?"

The garden seemed peaceful and quiet. We sat down on the bench again for a moment—or it was meant to be a moment. But moments are endowed from Heaven with blessed elasticity. I think I promised for a full quarter of an hour.

Then, at a cry from Daisy, I looked up. A tall stout man in gold spectacles stood looking down at us, a curious, only half-unkind, smile on his face. It was the Provost. I felt crimson all over, and sat speechless.

"Pray, what's the meaning of this, Mr. Vansittart?" he asked, the mixed smile still on his lips.

"I looked at him in fright for an instant. Then a pride arose in me. I cleared my throat and began, "Sir, I am promising——"

The demon of irony raked up, in the Provost's mind, the memory of his last words to me. Oh, that I had found another exordium for my heroic speech!

"Upon my word," said he, thrusting one hand into his cross-cut trouser-pocket, and pulling at his whisker with the other, "you are promising, for your age very promising, Mr. Vansittart."

The bubble was broken, Daisy hung her head; I was red and hot again.

"Very promising!" chuckled the Provost, jingling the money in his packet. "Very promising indeed!"

I could have struck him for his mocking iteration.

"Daisy, go indoors," said he, "and, Mr. Vansittart, may I lend you my key of the garden gate? Pray be so good as to return it to porter."

He handed it to me with a polite bow. Daisy was in retreat, hurrying in sad shame towards the house. I took the key.

"I meant it, sir," I stammered.

"You're a young fool," said he. And then he held out his hand.

"Yes, a young fool," he said again, as he shook hands. I went.

He stood, watching my exit. I looked back as I reached the gate. He was there still; and, behind him, in the porch, waved a handkerchief. I passed through the gate and locked it behind me.

And was the Long very long, and did I forget her in the Long?

I am willing to answer, at any cost to my own character, all material questions. But that question is immaterial. For she forgot me in the Long.

Dear me, I hope she's happy somewhere!