Simon Read Online Free PDF Page B

candles would be lit in the deep mullioned windows: and when they were lit tomorrow evening, Simon would not be there to see. Anotherstab of homesickness pierced him through and through. ‘Oh, I
wish
tomorrow would never come!’ he burst out. ‘If only you
knew
—’
    John Carey’s stern manner and cold grey eyes made people think him a hard man, and so he was, but he and Simon had always understood each other. ‘Believe it or not, Simon, I do know,’ he said. ‘I remember quite distinctly wishing desperately that I might wake up with the smallpox, the last evening before I went away to school.’ Then, as Simon looked up at him miserably, he added, ‘It isn’t really so unberarable, you know, once you get used to it.’ He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and they went indoors, followed by the spaniels Jillot and Ben.

III
A Toast to the King
    ALL THROUGH THAT winter and the spring that followed, the wildest rumours were rife in the West Country. The Irish Papists were coming to join their English fellows and the Protestants were to be massacred: another St Bartholomew’s Eve. There was a plan to blow up London. There was a French fleet in the Channel, waiting the King’s word to attack. Worst of all, in the eyes of Devon men, who had greater cause than the rest of England to remember the Inquisition, Charles was in league with Spain.
    Simon and Amias contrived not to think about all this. They both knew in their heart of hearts that there was going to be civil war—one day. But it might not be yet awhile, and it did not bother them much, not while the summer lasted and there were so many other things to think about. Now and then Amias would speak of some new rumour, especially the one about blowing up London, for mines and explosives always interested him intensely;but when that happened, Simon would say, ‘Oh, don’t let’s talk about it,’ and they would forget again. It was better so.
    They had forgotten more completely than usual, one afternoon, half-way through the summer holidays. It was a burning blue-and-golden afternoon, after a week of storms, and they had been up-river all day simply messing around, watching for a certain otter of their acquaintance, bathing in the dark pool under the hanging oakwoods where the leeches fastened on to you no matter how careful you were, and had to be pulled off afterwards; and now they were going home for supper.
    The furze was a blaze of gold, bean-scented in the August sunshine, as they climbed by their usual paths up Castle Hill, and the sheep lay in every patch of shade, too hot even to graze. Nothing stirred among the furze but a darting goldfinch or a linnet. The boys were hot too; their shirts stuck to them, and their arms and legs were flecked with horsefly bites, which in some odd way seemed only to add to their contentment, their sense of a day well spent. They were drenched with sunshine, half asleep as they walked. They had seen the otter and there was nearly a fortnight of the holidays left. Tomasine had promised damson tarts and gingerbread for supper, and afterwards, if no one was taken unexpectedly ill, Dr Hannaford, who was no mean swordsman of the old school and had given them lessons in the noble art of fence ever since they were big enough to hold a foil, had promised to show them a certain deadly thrust in tierce which he now considered them skilled enough to be trusted with. Altogether, life seemed very good, and if they had been cats they would have purred.
    The study, when they entered it by way of the window, seemed very dark after the golden dazzle of the world outside, where the peonies and late roses of the untidy garden burned like flowers of coloured flame; and it was a few seconds before they saw that Dr Hannaford was there already. He was standing at the side chest, with his back to them, and he could only just have arrived, for he was emptying instruments from the deep pockets of his riding-coat. Next instant he swung round on