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Afterwards she testified that he looked singularly cool and self-possessed. "I wish to see Mr. Warde," he said. "He's dining at the Head Master's." "Will he be in soon?" "I er don't know. Perhaps not. I wouldn't wait for him, Verney, if I were you." "Thank you," said John. "Good night." He went back to his room. In Mrs. Warde's eyes had read what? Excitement? Apprehension?
Warde's study." John followed the butler into the familiar room. Warde was not down yet, but evidently Dumber had instructions not to leave the prisoner. John stared at the writing-desk. Then he turned to Dumbleton, and said carelessly "This means the sack, eh, Dumber?" "Yes, sir. 'Ow could you do it, sir? Such a well-be'aved gentleman too!" "Thank you, Dumber."
'And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not reaps A truth from one that loves and knows? The Manor played in the cock-house match at cricket, being but barely defeated by Damer's. Everybody admitted that this glorious state of affairs was due to Warde's coaching of the weaker members of the Eleven.
Warde's gaze was fixed directly on Blythe, who seemed calm, content, and happy to be among them. He at least showed no constraint. "I dare say that robin will be in Canada by morning," Warde said. "They go as far north as Montreal before they turn south. Hey, Roy?" "Some of them do," Roy said. "There's a place I'd like to go to Montreal," said Warde. "Ever been there Blythey?"
John and Desmond were made especially welcome. And, after dinner, John, whose voice had not yet cracked, would sing, to Mrs. Warde's accompaniment, such songs as "O Bay of Dublin, my heart yu're throublin'," or "Think of me sometimes," or Handel's "Where'er you walk." The Caterpillar made no secret of a passion for Iris Warde, and became a dangerous rival of one of the younger masters.
Then he looked at the pictures again, steadily, intensely.... He seemed only half conscious of Roy saying, "I'm going to ask the postmaster how long that's been there." Then suddenly Roy felt the authority of his new scout, subordinate though that scout was. He felt Warde's hand detaining him. "Ask him nothing," he heard Warde say; "stay where you are." Pee-wee felt this calm authority, too.
Nothing seemed to matter since he had lost sight of Caesar's face, since the train whirled his friend out of his life. But he worked hard, so hard that the Head Master bade him beware of a breakdown. The hour of triumph came. John had gratified his own and Warde's ambition; he was a Scholar of Christ Church. And this well-earned success seemed to thaw something in his heart.
"We'll get Warde," Pee-wee said, "because he likes Warde, and Warde's pretty good at jollying me, too. And that'll be good because we're the three that stick up for Blythe, hey? And if any of those men say anything there'll be three of us to answer them." "They won't let us stay long, Kid," Roy said.
Between Warde and Curboil the acquaintance had matured had been in a measure forced in its growth by circumstances and mutual obligations; but it had never ripened into the confidence of friendship on Warde's side, while on Sir Arnold's it had been but a well-played comedy to hide his rising hatred for the Lady Goda's husband. And she, on her side, played her part as well.
There it was that the greatest of all fox-hunters, Asheton Smithe, when on a visit to John Warde, rode Warde's horse Blue Ruin over a frozen country through a fast run of twenty-five minutes and killed his fox. On the terrace stands a monument. It marks the spot where in 1741, James Wolfe, the son of Lieut-Col.
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