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Updated: June 16, 2025
Then the evenings came, with Morcombe sitting in his study getting helped in his work, or talking about books and people and ideas. The House matches began. A-K senior had an average side, but no one expected them to do very much, and it was a surprise when, by beating Christy's and Claremont's, they qualified to meet an exceptionally strong Buller's side in the final.
"Oh, nothing. I was talking to him in hall to-night. He didn't seem so bad." "Perhaps he isn't. I haven't taken much interest in him." "I see." Gordon returned to his book. Five minutes later he began again. "Is Morcombe fairly high in form?" "Not very. Why this sudden interest?" "Nothing." Foster looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing.
There was no chance of there being any matches, but the same routine went on. It was in this period of depression that Gordon began to take an interest in Morcombe. Morcombe was considerably Gordon's junior; not so much in years there was, as a matter of fact, only a few months between them as in position.
Gordon alone realised that the present was an impossible state of affairs. Sixty-four against a hundred and twenty! They couldn't hope to win more than once in six years. He pointed this out to Morcombe in second hall that evening. "As a matter of fact, if we win this year, I believe I shall go to 'the Bull' and offer to change it." "But why?" said Morcombe.
Bray always amused him; his whole outlook on life was so exactly like his footer. But for once Gordon found him dull. Morcombe was so much more interesting. In second hall that evening Gordon discovered from a House list that Morcombe was in the Army class. He consulted Foster on the subject. "Know anything about a lad called Morcombe?" "Yes; he is in the Army class. Rather a fool. Why?"
He did not know what his real sentiments were; he did not even attempt to analyse them. He only knew that when he was with Morcombe he was indescribably happy. There was something in him so natural, so unaffected, so sensitive to beauty. After this Morcombe came up to Gordon's study nearly every evening, and usually Foster left them alone together, and went off in search of Collins.
The squire lifted her in his arms, and held her closely to him. "John," he said, "you must tell Mrs. Morcombe to get a room ready for my granddaughter, at once, and you had better bring the tea in here, and then we will think of other things. I feel quite bewildered, at present." When John returned with the tea, Aggie was sitting on the squire's knee.
Morcombe had come late; had made little mark at either footer or cricket; and had drifted into the Army class, where, owing to private tuition and extra hours, he found himself somewhat "out of it" in the House. In hall he used to sit at the top of the day-room table. Gordon very rarely took hall.
By the way, what did you think of Claremont's sermon last night?" Conversation flowed easily. Morcombe was quick, and, at times, amusing. Gordon unaccountably found himself trying to appear at his best. "You know," he was saying, "I do get so sick of these masters who go about with the theory of 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world, and in war-time, too!
Then, when the long evenings came, with Morcombe sitting in the games study, his face flushed with the glow of the leaping fire, talking of Keats and Shelley, himself a poem, Gordon used to wonder how he could ever have wished to dabble in ugly things, out of his cowardice to face the truth.
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