Harold Hardy

Chapter I

"Hulloa! Harold! Why I do declare you've been crying ! What's the matter?" " Oh everything — and 1 wish I were dead." The questioner, a dark-eyed, tall, graceful girl, some seventeen years of age, did not reply for a few moments, but stood silently and perplexedly before her boy friend, Harold Hardy — a lad who, though still so boyish looking, has turned his eighteenth year, and is just now at the most ungainly period of his life. Somehow, his long limbs seem completely out of all proportion, so he looks, and indeed feels, as full of awkwardness as a clumsy young colt. Moreover, his mind, as well as his body, has made too much growth of late, and he consequently feels not only out of keeping with his old young self, but with life generally. Half regretfully he now begins to realise that he is at last hopelessly quite out of touch with happy boyhood, and yet, so far, men will have none of him ; and even the girls he so lately chevied and chased now look more shyly at him, or snub him altogether.

Much joy seems to have melted away out of his life, and in some strange manner his little world appears to have obscured and saddened around him, for no one seems to want him so much now. He is standing, as it were, alone, con fronting the first cross-road of his life, where the sign post cal lously points out the road to Manhood ; and yet fain would he linger awhile longer in the home meadows before starting on ( 1 ) the dusty high road of life. But he feels that boyhood has already gone from him; the toys of boyhood — guinea-pigs, rabbits, bats, balls, marbles, and tops are all dead to him, and a dull interregnum is with him, for the toys of manhood — money, woman, and wine — are not yet vivified before him. However, his ungainly hobbledehoyhood cannot disguise the fact that even now he is naturally a very prepossessing youth.

A few years ago he wras emphatically what is called a " pretty boy" ; and, notwithstanding his present self-conscious awk wardness, he is still a comely youth — with his fine, deep-blue eyes, clear pale complexion, his mass of bright, golden-streaked, light brown hair, and his clean-cut, classical features — niore over, he has a most winning air of frankness, which, in itself alone, is sufficient to give beauty and charm to any young life. Just look into those seemingly half-frightened, clear, deep blue eyes of his ; study them quietly, and one can see a soul peering questioningly out, already speculatively scanning the strange life around, as though fondly, but puzzledly, trying to adjust the soul's sight to see harmony in the midst of bleared discord. It is perhaps well, however, that it is given unto few to speak so plainly with their eyes — for in this lad's eyes can plainly be discerned much future grief and sadness and woe and pity, together with the melancholy unrest of a too thought ful soul — and not overmuch joy.

Still, notwithstanding his soft eyes and almost girlish com plexion, Harold Hardy is by no means effeminate. His once plump cherubimical face is almost fast setting into determined lines of angularity, and firmness is being writ distinctly about his mouth, as though he had well begun to weigh the stern realities of a man's life. Just now, as his young old friend, Ethel Pierce, came to him, he was reflectively musing, perched on the top of a stile by the side of a little mill-stream not far from the vicarage of Brook ford — his home in Buckinghamshire. His head was squeezed between his fists, with his arms resting on his bent-up knees, as he gazed listlessly at the muddy puddle at his feet. The girl startled him in his reverie, and he rose slightly, half in surprise, and yet a little by way of polite salutation.

A short while ago he would not have deigned to show even this little politeness to any girl outside a drawing room ; but now, somehow, things were getting different, and even Ethel Pierce was no longer the muff she once was in his eyes, and could no more be unduly subjected to boyish tyranny — for she also was growing up apace. Ethel Pierce, the only daughter of Sir George Pierce, Bart., of Brookford Hall, has long been Harold Hardy's obedient chum and trusted confidante, and 'erstwhile was hand in hand romper with him — indeed, if truth be spoken, she had even been the instigating spirit of half his mischief. But that was then, when she was a romping girl and a bit of a tom-boy ; not now, when she flatters herself she is quite a young lady, and strictly proper. Harold, however, hardly appreciates the change so flatteringly, for, as he remarked to his sister Winnie the other day, he thinks — " Ethel is getting a jolly sight too stuck up you know."

But he spoke hastily, as a purblind loveless boy, forgetting that very soon he might think otherwise as a man. Still, notwithstanding her newly-acquired trimness and neat ness, Ethel Pierce is yet but a mischievous girl at heart, and as full of high spirits as ever ; but, all the same, she is no longer a child — and she knows it. So no more does she scamper through ditches and hedges regardless of torn frocks and broken-rimmed hats ; and, moreover, her long black hair is not now permitted to hang down her back anyhow, to be roughly blown about just as the wind pleases, but is neatly tied up with a dainty red ribbon ; and her clothes and shoes, lately more often mud be-spattered than otherwise, are now w7ell brushed and wonderfully trim. Quite recently also, her waywardness and natural freedom have somewhat hastily given way to a general air of artistic deportment, which has rather irritated the youth on the stile, who is still very regardless of grace and of all the artifices of a tailor's good fit; but the girl is quicker than the boy in realising that there are more ulterior motives in dainty dress than necessity alone.

She is a pretty girl — decidedly so — and yet, perhaps, rather handsome than simply pretty. A dark, handsome girl — with laughing, rich, brown eyes, so bright and .sparkling, that surely that imp of a Cupid has already touched them up with a delicate coating of that potent spirit varnish of bright hope and youth's happy desire, for which he is so justly famous ! Her skin has the down of the unplucked peach, and is of clear olive hue, warmly tinted by the ruddy glow of perfect health. Her features are distinct and firm, but, at the same time, softly rounded, as though Nature had first made a plump, happy, laughing, almost sensual face, and then, artistically repenting of even a suspicion of grossness or overfulness, had deftly, at the last moment, made rich beauty more handsome by classic refinement of the features even at the cost of abandoning a little of that piquancy of ripe fulness which is sometimes so alluring as to be almost dangerous.

Yes, she is a charming girl — of that there can be no doubt. See how prettily her eyebrows are so very naively poised just so as to best supplement the tender allurement of the soft eyes ! And then the long silky dark lashes so invitingly up-turned ! long enough and strong enough surely to bind round and round and hold fast the soul of any son of Adam ! Come, come, thou melancholy lad upon the stile, awake and rejoice, for behold what the Gods have sent thee ! But no ; the boy, so far, can see nothing divine in Ethel Pierce, in fact, he is almost boyish enough to resent her kindly intrusion upon his solitude. "Why, Harold, you've been crying!" "Crying? Eugh — who told you that, pray?" " 2s o one, I can see you have. Why the tears are in your eves now. What's the matter. Harold?" 'Well, perhaps I did cry a bit : but I was thinking, and for got what I was doing, and somehow the tears came out of their own accord — hang it all !

" So saying he angrily drew his sleeve across his wet eyes, and felt so much ashamed of himself as to blush painfully: but, strange to say, Ethel had seen him do wickeder things than cry, and yet he had not then thus blushed. Why did he blush now? "Make room for me up there, Harold — there's a good fellow." '* Ver}- well, but you'll find it beastly draughty sitting in the middle of a field with both gates open." A_nd laughing thus forcedly he jumped down to help the girl up. Hitherto she had always managed to help herself up, and therefore the present situation was rather novel, so the silly lad stupidly hesitated, a; though not knowing what to do. Then, jerking his hat a little further back on his head, he stooped down desperately, and took her up by the waist (or, by the middle, as he called it to himself), and quickly dumped her down on the top rail as though she were a bag of old clothes.

The girl inwardly laughed : but merely very coyly said " thanks." as she carefully arranged her dress ; and then Harold, thinking he looked a bit of a fool standing by himself, climbed up also, and sat diffidently beside her — or rather, to speak accurately, about two yards from her. Then, still with out looking at her, he asked — "" Where are you off to ? " "Nowhere: but I saw you pass down the village, and you looked so awfully miserable that I thought I'd just come and cheer you up a bit. What's the matter, Harold — has your father been going on at you again about that horrid confirmation? Do tell me, Harold." "Oh, I really don't exactly know what is the matter with me. Life seems to have changed so much, and everything seems altered — even you, Ethel — and I'm in the dumps, so there ! " "I've altered?

How?" " Oh, I don't know — but you're not a bit like you used to be." "Well, if so, it is only because I am getting grown up, and, of course, life will alter us both ; but I don't see why that need make you unhappy, Harold — why, I do believe you don't a bit want to grow up and be a man ! " "No, I don't; and, what's more, I wouldn't mind if I could grow backwards into nothing," said the youth, as he picked spitefully at an old rowing corn on the palm of his hand. Then suddenly he turned to his companion, and said sadly — "I think life gets worse as one grows older, don't you, Ethel ? There's such an awful lot one can't understand, and yet can't help thinking about ; 'pon my word, I believe I begin to hate life, it seems so cruel sometimes." " But anyhow, Harold, you've got me for a friend, so don't look so miserable — let us try and be as we used to be."

"Yes, you are a brick at cheering a fellow up, Ethel — but all the same you can't quite understand, you know." "Well, I'd try if I only knew what's the matter with you. Tell me, Harold — there's a good boy — fellow I mean, or man if you like." So saying she gently put her hand persuasively on his shoulder. "But I can't, Ethel, because I don't know myself. All I do know is that I should just like to put my head in your lap and cry my eyes out." " Sit down on that step there — do, Harold ! " He half laughed at the girl, and then hesitatingly slid down and sat at her feet. " Now you can put your head in my lap — see, like that, but I don't want you to cry, silly boy ! " And when he felt her soft hands gently pressing his head down, his young sad heart — so craving for sympathy — was stirred by strange emotions ; a little shame, a little anger, a lot of grief, and, although he knew it not, an aching sense of love struggling to be born.

So he nestled his head in happy sadness, and his eyes filled to overflowing with great big tears — the salt spray, as it were, of the fast rising ocean of love within his soul. "Ah! Ethel, do you know, I really belieye the devil has got into me — ■" " Harold ! " " Yes, it's true, really — I'm getting wickeder evenday. I don't even know what I believe in now — who God is, or what's what. How then can I be confirmed ? Sometimes I don't believe I'm a Christian even — God seems as though he has for gotten the world and me, and when I think, I seem to drift further and further away from Him — but what's the good of talking to a girl about such things ? for girls only say their prayers like parrots or little children, and don't think what they're saying." "Thank you ; but I'm nearly as old as you, Mr. Harold !

" " Oh, yes, you may be an old woman, but even old girls can't think much — at least that's my opinion." " Indeed ! well / can think anyhow — so there ! Didn't I think when I saw you coming down the village just now with your hands in your pockets, and with your head hanging so miserably ? Yes, I did ; and I thought a lot too. First, I thought you were unhappy, then I thought I would run out to you, then I thought I was too big to run out after you like I used to, then I thought perhaps you didn't want me, then I thought what the other girls would say, but then, without thinking what I was doing, I snatched up my hat, and here I am — and now you say I can't think ! " The girl now, in her turn, and in sheer vexation, also wept, but she tried very bravely, by much blinking and winking, to keep her tears in.

One big heavy one, however, escaped, and fell straight on to Harold's forehead. "There now, Ethel — there you go ! That's just like a girl ! If a fellow only just says a word or two you begin crying — and that's what you call cheering a fellow up ! " " Well, Harold, I couldn't help it — you are so unkind ; and besides you can't talk, for you were crying yourself a minute ago, and you're not a girl — you big booby ! So what do you want to go on at me for ? " Then they both laughed a little amidst their tears, and young Hardy condescendingly remarked — " Well, yes, I suppose I was crying just a bit. But, I say, Ethel, don't you cry — I'm awfully sorry I made you — but really girls are so silly at seeing a thing you know — and then they're so funny when they cry that a fellow doesn't know what to do, don't you know?"

" Well, I won't cry any more, Harold, if you won't." "Oh, I shan't, you bet — in fact, I wasn't hardly crying then—" " Oh, yes, you were though — " But they were not real tears like you cry when you cry you know — what should I cry for?" " Oh, 1 don't know — but you did ciy, and worse than me, for I felt your whole body shake." "What about?" " How do I know, silly boy — but I tell you you did cry, and you know you did." " There you are again ! Just like a girl — can't leave a fellow alone, and will have the last word." " But you did — you cried in my lap ! " "All right then — say I did if you like, but don't go on nagging a fellow's head off." " Oh, very well — you're going to be nasty — so I'm off, good bye." So saying the girl very suddenly jerked herself free, and sliding quickly to the ground, ran off as fast as she could.

For a moment or two Harold Hardy looked at her half sneeringly, but then the dormant man within him bade him follow the girl — so he jumped up and ran. But thereupon she ran all the faster ; and, in the excitement of their race, they soon quite forgot their young grown dignity, and chased with all the zest and glow of the old childish romping days. The youth, how ever, fast gained upon the girl, until at last he had but to stretch out his hand to capture her. In the just gone by days of his barbaric past he would have wilfully seized her by her long flowing hair and have brought her to the ground ; but now her hair was all too trim, and decorum staid his hands. So he caught her gently by the arm instead, and burst out laughing — "There now, you're mine — I've got you! Do you know, Ethel, I was just about to scalp you as I used to !

" The girl laughed pantingly as she held her hands to her dainty waist, gasping for breath, and she was evidently highly amused at this sudden reversion to their former savage state. Then, with sly mocking demureness, she asked — " And you won't twist my wrists if I give in, Harold ? " His only answer was to hold her more securely by the arm as though he feared the prisoner might again escape ; and yet, somehow, his strong grasp was more tender than ever before. She slightly bent her head down ; then noticing the flower in her waistband all drooping and ready to fall through the roughness of her flight — she pulled it from her, carelessly saying— " Oh that beautiful rose — what a shame ! there now the stem's broken." She held it in the palm of her hand, half hoping the lad would take it — perhaps as a keep-sake — but her love was too premature.

" Chuck it away — it's no good, it's broken and dead," quoth the backward and hardly awakened young man, as he with drew his hand from her arm and gaily jerked her hand to send the blossom flying amongst the hedge-side weeds. They chatted happily all the way home as they walked very sedately side by side right up to the garden entrance of Brook ford Hall ; but then, when Ethel was leaving him, Harold held his head down a little, and nervously kicked at some uneven stones in the hard gravel path. A little pause ensued, and then he quietly said, rather shamefacedly — " Oh, I say, Ethel — I didn't mean to be nasty, and — and, I'm awfully sorry I was such a brute as to make you cry. Will you — will you excuse me, forgive me — Ethel?" The apology was hardly come by ; for the young man had never before condescended to apologise to petticoats (excepting in the case of his mother) whether they were long or short — and he did not altogether care about doing so now.

But he had to ; for Nature, having somewhat neglected him, was now fast making up for lost time — and, almost unconsciously, the boy man was being brought under a new subjection. " Of course, I will, Harold. I wasn't really offended, it was only my fun — good-bye, Harold." The maiden held out her hand coyly, and yet laughingly, for such politeness between them was of so strange and new a growth that it half amused, half puzzled, and yet entirely pleased her. Harold took her soft hand diffidently and bashfully, like a big clumsy schoolboy, and as he said good bye the girl's radiant face was ver}7 prettily turned upwards (almost, but not quite, innocently) to his gaze — but, heigho ! he was even now but a novice in cupidical arts and craft, and utterly failed to realise the joy which may be found on pretty lips so poutingly pursed together all so kissingly.

Nevertheless he pressed her hand a little, hardly intention ally in fact, and only for a passing second — long enough, how ever, to send off a telepathic message of most pleasing moment to both receiver and transmitter. Then, when she had run away, he stood gazing at the closed garden gate as though, for sooth, with a little more effort, the penetrating eyes of love might miraculously see through the thick wooden door. The young man, lately so melancholy, was glad enough now, and life seemed sweeter by far than it did but a few minutes ago. So he walked away homewards with his gay young heart tumultuously pumping joy to race like quicksilver through his veins. After he had gone a little way, however, he suddenly turned abruptly back and hastily retraced his steps to the way he and Ethel had come.

Right back across the meadows went he, so buoyantly of step that the daisy heads could scarce have even felt his angelic tread. Soon he got to the spot where, so little a while ago, he had idly tossed aside the drooping rose-bud Ethel had worn. The gusty wind had blowm it deeply into the thorny hedge, but he got it out very tenderly, and behold ! when he again looked at it no rose had ever been so fair in his eyes before, and surely none before had e'er been so fragrant ! However, after this time, the young man grew in amatory wisdom daily; and, adolescently, began to much qualify his juvenile contempt of girls — especially of the prettier ones — for now they were more pleasing to think of, and not half bad to look upon either.

Chapter II

The Reverend Evan Hardy, as he meditatively sat at the head of the breakfast table so leisurely opening and reading his letters, apparently quite overlooked the fact that the rest of the family impatiently awaited his pleasure to start all off fairly by saying the customary grace. In their younger days the children, fretting like young ponies at the starting post, would sometimes break away before the given signal, but sundry experiences had long since taught them that such false starts were a mistake, and a bit of vice such as their father, stern trainer as he was, would certainly eradicate at any cost. So that now when they were older they better saw the virtue of patience, and habitually waited for the signal. It so happens, however, that on this particular morning Harold is strangely restless, and inwardly frets and fumes at the childish restraint so galling to him now.

So he begins by quietly breaking up a slice of bread, and then, by way of semi-public protest at the delay, half apologetically eats a little. His sister Mary looks at him as though the bread, being un blessed, would inevitably choke him ; but his younger sister Winnie, a fair-haired pretty girl about fifteen, giggles and makes eyes at him as much as to say — "Oh won't you get it ! " Mrs. Hardy has been hitherto busy nervously scanning the table, anxious lest any forgotten little thing might disturb the smoothness of the early meal, which so often determined the day's equanimity. Sitting thus, very resignedly, with folded hands she all at once notices Harold's impatience, and very quietly, and all too kindly, silently shakes her head by way of reproof. ( 1» ) "Let us say grace," suddenly exclaimed the Rev. Mr. Hardy.

The words came out with such a sudden jerk as the vicar hastily put down his letters, that all heads abruptly, automatically, and more or less devoutly, bent lowly over the knives and forks. " 0 God, who hast safely brought us to the beginning of this day, defend us from the perils thereof. We thank thee heartily for our creation, preservation, and for all the blessings of this life. For what we are going to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful." "Amen," responded Mrs. Hardy and the two girls very piously, but Harold's lips moved very dubiously, and it was a moot point whether he was praying or chewing. " I did not hear your response Harold," said his father sternly, as he raised his head enquiringly to better look at Harold from beneath his spectacles. It is a trying way Mr. Hardy has of thus superseding the glasses whenever he studies physiognomy very critically.

Sometimes he looked above the glasses, and sometimes beneath them — and each way had its own very significant meaning. Harold, from childhood up, had well known the vastly different natures of the "above" and "below" gaze. The look above meant total annihilation of all opposition ; but the look below boded toleration, possibly even graciousness. Unhappily for domestic peace the Rev. Evan Hardy now looked above his glasses, and surprisedly raising his thick beetle brows, he proceeded to so focus poor Harold as to make him squirm before him like a wretched worm being consumed by the frizzling glare of a scorching sun. Prolongation of the glare was too much for Harold, so he very meekly and inno cently enquired- — "What, father?" D Do not prevaricate, Harold ; you heard what I said." "Amen then!"

Harold exclaimed, flushing angrily and spitting out the words almost defiantly. Poor Mrs. Hardy looked quite pained, and so also did young Winnie, but Mary, who is exceedingly religious, looked quite complacent, and was not sorry that the wicked should be brought to judgment. "Such an Amen, Harold, is worse than silence. You will now stand up and say the whole grace aloud — stand up, sir ! " From force of habitual obedience, Harold at once rose, but there was an angry flush of incipient revolt on his fair face — the first flush of angry manhood — which should have cautioned a discreet parent not too severely to strain filial obedience. But the angry father could merely see a wicked wayward child, so he exclaimed harshly — " Now say your grace aloud, sir ! " And the sadly humiliated youth, with rebellion in his heart and eyes aflame with indignation, stood up defiantly erect, and said, a little sneeringly perhaps — "For what we are going to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful, Amen — there, father, will that do?"

There was a veiled challenge, a wicked challenge perhaps, in his angry voice, and a wise father would have declined to accept it in hot blood, but the Rev. Evan Hardy determined to crush the evil speaker at once. "That was not the prayer I said, Harold." "But I don't know your prayer." " More shame to you then, Harold. Come, sir, repeat after me — " 0 God, who hast safely brought us to the beginning of this day, defend us from the perils thereof — " And as Mr. Hardy paused, the first positive sneer of Harold's life shaped itself, but, after a moment's thought, he repeated the words. So Mr. Hardy continued — "We thank thee heartily for our creation, preservation, and for all the blessings of this life" — and then he paused for his son to continue — Harold hesitated, a little longer this time, and his mother and sisters looked inquiringly at him.

Poor Winnie, in fact, stared quite affrightedly at him, with mouth open, as though in painful expectation of something dreadful to come. "Well, Harold?" asked his father very sternly. " Father — I must skip out ' creation.' " " What, sir ! what — what do you mean ? " "I don't think I do honestly bless God for my creation, father — and I won't lie to Him. All life seems so cruel that I don't think—" "Go to your room, sir — this minute," interrupted Mr. Hardy, as calmly as a man after God's own heart, with the devil's own anger in his veins, could possibly speak. "Go to your room, sir, lest I forget myself and chastise you. Go ! " So Harold, without a word more, got up and left the room ; not passionately, not sullenly, but with a calm assertive air quite new to him — with the dignity, in fact, of a young, albeit a wilful, man, beginning to realise that he has a separate exist ence, and is a legitimate heir to a man's full estate of reason with the rights of thinking for himself.

Very foolishly Mr. Hardy, by untimely and indiscreet zeal to crush out infidelity, had managed to stamp smouldering rebellion into lurid flame, the glow of which would hang for many a day around the peaceful vicarage of Brookford. No wonder all the family looked aghast wdien Harold so quietly left the room — for all realised now that a great crisis had come. For a time the situation was too acute for words ; so not a word was spoken. Then Mr. Hardy, perhaps to show how calm he was, and how a righteous man can be in peace even when at war, commenced to eat as though nothing had happened. Seeing which, Mary, by way of relieving the strained situation, inconsistently looked out of the window and remarked that it was a beautiful day, and Mrs. Hardy agreeing apparently that soft words might clear the electric disturb ance, remarked that it 'was' very warm — almost 'hot,' and thereupon fanned herself with her handkerchief.