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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/19085-8.txt b/19085-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eb4ded6 --- /dev/null +++ b/19085-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7154 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Prelude to Adventure, by Hugh Walpole + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Prelude to Adventure + +Author: Hugh Walpole + +Release Date: August 20, 2006 [EBook #19085] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE *** + + + + +Produced by Andrew Hodson + + + + + +Transcriber's Note: Errors found: A name is sometimes spelt 'Med. Tetloe' and +sometimes 'Med-Tetloe' & Cleopatre maybe wrong. So that just 7 bit text +is used the accented & ligatured words are repeated here with numbers +for codepages 437 & 850: Acute e 130 é: blasé, chasméd, Cléopatre, élite +& unperturbéd i with 2 (or 3) dots 139 ï: daïs & daïs ea ligature 145 +æ: mediæval u with 2 dots 129 ü: Dürer's 'The Hound of Heaven' poem, The +letter to father and separate 'All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me.' +quote are in a smaller font. + + + +THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE + +BY HUGH WALPOLE AUTHOR OF "MR. PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL" + + +MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED, ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON + +_New Edition September_,1919 + +TO MY FRIEND R. A. STREATFIELD + + + + CONTENTS + + CHAP. + I. LAST CHAPTER + + II. BUNNING + + III. THE BODY COMES TO TOWN + + IV. MARGARET CRAVEN + + V. STONE ALTARS + + VI. THE WATCHERS + + VII. TERROR + + VIII. REVELATION OF BUNNING (I) + + IX. REVELATION OF BUNNING (II) + + X. CRAVEN + + XI. FIFTH OF NOVEMBER + + XII. LOVE TO THE "VALSE TRISTE" + + XIII. MRS. CRAVEN + + XIV. GOD + + XV. PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY + + XVI. OLVA AND MARGARET + + XVII. FIRST CHAPTER + + + + Up vistaed hopes I sped; + And shot, precipitated Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, + From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. + But with unhurrying chase, + And unperturbed pace, + Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, + They beat--and a Voice beat + More instant than the Feet-- + All things betray thee, who betrayest Me. + + The Hound of Heaven. + + 16 HALLAM STREET, + _October_ 11, 1911. + + + + +CHAPTER I + +LAST CHAPTER + +1 + +"There _is_ a God after all." That was the immense conviction that +faced him as he heard, slowly, softly, the leaves, the twigs, settle +themselves after that first horrid crash which the clumsy body had made. + +Olva Dune stood for an instant straight and stiff, his arms heavily at +his side, and the dank, misty wood slipped back once more into silence. +There was about him now the most absolute stillness: some trees dripped +in the mist; far above him, on the top of the hill, the little path +showed darkly--below him, in the hollow, black masses of fern and weed +lay heavily under the chill November air--at his feet there was the +body. + +In that sudden after silence he had known beyond any question that might +ever again arise, that there was now a God--God had watched him. + +With grave eyes, with hands that did not tremble, he surveyed and then, +bending, touched the body. He knelt in the damp, heavy soil, tore open +the waistcoat, the shirt; the flesh was yet warm to his touch--the +heart was still. Carfax was dead. + +It had happened so instantly. First that great hulking figure in front +of him, the sneering laugh, that last sentence, "Let her rot . . . my +dear Dune, your chivalry does you credit." Then that black, blinding, +surging rage and the blow that followed. He did not know what he had +intended to do. It did not matter--only in the force that there had been +in his arm there had been the accumulated hatred of years, hatred that +dated from that first term at school thirteen years ago when he had +known Carfax for the dirty hypocrite that he was. He could not stay now +to think of the many things that had led to this climax. He only knew +that as he raised himself again from the body there was with him no +feeling of repentance, no suggestion of fear, only a grim satisfaction +that he had struck so hard, and, above all, that lightning certainty +that he had had of God. + +His brain was entirely alert. He did not doubt, as he stood there, that +he would be caught and delivered and hanged. He, himself, would take no +steps to prevent such a catastrophe. He would leave the body there as it +was: to-night, to-morrow they would find it,--the rest would follow. He +was, indeed, acutely interested in his own sensations. Why was it that +he felt no fear? Where was the terror that followed, as he had so often +heard, upon murder? Why was it that the dominant feeling in him should +be that at last he had justified his existence? In that furious blow +there had leapt within him the creature that he had always been--the +creature subdued, restrained, but always there--there through all +this civilized existence; the creature that his father was, that his +grandfather, that all his ancestors, had been. He looked down. The +hulking body that had been Carfax made a hollow in the wet and broken +fern. The face was white, stupid, the cheeks hanging fat, horrible, the +eyes staring. One leg was twisted beneath the body. Still in the air +there seemed to linger that startled little cry--"Oh!"--surprise, +wonder--and then fading miserably into nothing as the great body fell. + +Such a huge hulking brute; now so sordid and useless, looking at last, +after all these years, the thing that it ought always to have looked. +Some money had rolled from the pocket and lay shining amongst the fern. +A gold ring glittered on the white finger, seeming in the heart of that +silence the only living note. + +Then Olva remembered his dog--where was he? He turned and saw the fox +terrier down on all fours amongst the fern, motionless, his tongue out, +his eyes gazing with animal inquiry at his master. The dog was waiting +for the order to continue the walk. He seemed, in his passivity, merely +to be resting, a little exhausted perhaps by the heavy closeness of the +day, too indolent to nose amongst the leaves for possible adventure: +Olva looked at him. The dog caught the look and beat the grass with his +tail, soft, friendly taps to show that he only waited for orders. Then +still idly, still with that air of gentle amusement, the dog gazed at +the thing in the grass. He rose slowly and very delicately advanced a +few steps: for an instant some fear seemed to strike his heart for he +stopped suddenly and gazed into his master's face for reassurance. What +he saw there comforted him. Again he wagged his tail placidly and half +closed his eyes in sleepy indifference. + +Then Olva, without another backward glance, left the hollow, crashed +through the fern up the hill and struck the little brown path. Bunker, +the dog, pattered patiently behind him. + + +2 + +Olva Dune was twenty-three years of age. He was of Spanish descent, +and it was only within the last two generations that English blood had +mingled with the Dune stock. He was of no great height, slim and dark. +His hair was black, his complexion sallow, and on his upper lip he wore +a small dark moustache. His ears were small, his mouth thin, his chin +sharply pointed, but his eyes, large, dark brown, were his best feature. +They were eyes that looked as though they held in their depths the +possibility of tenderness. He walked as an athlete, there was no spare +flesh about him anywhere, and in his carriage there was a dignity that +had in it pride of birth, complete self-possession, and above all, +contempt for his fellow-creatures. + +He despised all the world save only his father. He had gone through +his school-life and was now passing through his college-life as a man +travels through a country that has for him no interest and no worth but +that may lead, once it has been traversed, to something of importance +and adventure. He was now at the beginning of his second year at +Cambridge and was regarded by every one with distrust, admiration, +excitement. His was one of the more interesting personalities at that +time in residence at Saul's. + +He had come with a historical scholarship and a great reputation as a +Three-quarter from Rugby. He was considered to be a certain First Class +and a certain Rugby Blue; he, lazily and indifferently during the course +of his first term, discouraged both these anticipations. He attended +no lectures, received a Third Class in his May examinations, and was +deprived of his scholarship at the end of his first year. He played +brilliantly in the Freshmen's Rugby match, but so indolently in the +first University match of the season that he was not invited again. Had +he played merely badly he would have been given a second trial, but +his superior insolence was considered insulting. He never played in +any College matches nor did he trouble to watch any of their glorious +conflicts. Once and again he produced an Essay for his Tutor that +astonished that gentleman very considerably, but when called before the +Dean for neglecting to attend lectures explained that he was studying +the Later Roman Empire and could not possibly attend to more than one +thing at a time. + +He was perfectly friendly to every one, and it was curious that, with +his air of contempt for the world in general, he had made no enemies. He +wondered at that himself, on occasions; he had always been supposed, for +instance, to be very good friends with Carfax. He had, of course, always +hated Carfax--and now Carfax was dead. + +The little crooked path soon left the dark wood and merged into the long +white Cambridge road. The flat country was veiled in mist, only, like +a lantern above a stone wall, the sun was red over the lower veils of +white that rose from the sodden fields. Some trees started like spies +along the road. Overhead, where the mists were faint, the sky showed the +faintest of pale blue. The long road rang under Olva's step--it would be +a frosty night. + +When the little wood was now a black ball in the mist Olva was suddenly +sick. He leant against one of the dark mysterious trees and was +wretchedly, horribly ill. Slowly, then, the colour came back to his +cheeks, his hands were once more steady, he could see again clearly. He +addressed the strange world about him, the long flat fields, the hard +white road, the orange sun. "That is the last time," he said aloud, "the +last weakness." + +He definitely braced himself to face life. There would not be much of +it--to-morrow he would be arrested: meanwhile there should be no more of +these illusions. There was, for instance, the illusion that the body was +following him, bounding grotesquely along the hard road. He knew that +again and again he turned his head to see whether anything were there, +and the further the little wood was left behind the nearer did the body +seem to be. He must not allow himself to think these things. Carfax was +dead--Carfax was dead--Carfax was dead. It was a good thing that Carfax +was dead. He had saved, he hoped, Rose Midgett--that at any rate he had +done; it was a good thing for Rose Midgett that he had killed Carfax. +He had, incidentally, no interest on his own account in Rose Midgett--he +scarcely knew her by sight--but it was pleasant to think that she would +be no longer worried. . . . + +Then there was that question about God. Now the river appeared, darkly, +dimly below the road, the reeds rising spire-like towards the faint blue +sky. That question about God--Olva had never believed in any kind of a +God. His father had defied God and the Devil time and again and had been +none the worse for it. And yet--here and there about the world people +lived and had their being to whom this question of God was a vital +question; people like Bunning and his crowd--mad, the whole lot of +them. Nevertheless there was something there that had great power. That +had, until to-day, been Olva's attitude, an amused superior curiosity. + +Now it was a larger question. There had been that moment after Carfax +had fallen, a moment of intense silence, and in that moment something +had spoken to Olva. It is a fact as sure as concrete, as though he +himself could remember words and gesture. There had been Something +there. . . . + +Brushing this for an instant aside, he faced next the question of his +arrest. There was no one, save his father, for whom he need think. He +would send his father word saying--"I have killed a beast--fairly--in +the open"--that would be all. + +He would not be hanged--poison should see to that. Dunes had murdered, +raped, tortured--never yet had they died on the gallows. + +And now, for the first time, the suspicion crossed his mind that +perhaps, after all, he might escape--escape, at any rate, that order of +punishment. Here on this desolate road, he had met no living soul; the +mists encompassed him and they had now swallowed the dripping wood and +all that it contained. It had always been supposed that he was good +friends with Carfax, as good friends as he allowed himself to be with +any one. No one had known in which direction he would take his walk; +he had come upon Carfax entirely by chance. It might quite naturally be +supposed that some tramp had attempted robbery. To the world at large +Olva could have had no possible motive. But, for the moment, these +thoughts were dismissed. It seemed to him just now immaterial whether he +lived or died. Life had not hitherto been so wonderful a discovery +that the making of it had been entirely worth while. He had no tenor of +disgrace; his father was his only court of appeal, and that old rocky +sinner, sitting alone with his proud spirit and his grey hairs, in his +northern fastness, hating and despising the world, would himself slay, +had he the opportunity, as many men of the Carfax kind as he could find. +He had no terror of pain--he did not know what that kind of fear was. +The Dunes had always faced Death. + +But he began, dimly, now to perceive that there were larger, crueller +issues before him than these material punishments. He had known since +he was a tiny child a picture by some Spanish painter, whose name he had +forgotten, that had always hung on the wall of the passage opposite his +bedroom. It was a large engraving in sharply contrasted black and white, +of a knight who rode through mists along a climbing road up into +the heart of towering hills. The mountains bad an active life in the +picture; they seemed to crowd forward eager to swallow him. Beside the +spectre horse that he rode there was no other life. The knight's face, +white beneath his black helmet, was tired and worn. About him was the +terror of loneliness. + +From his earliest years this idea of loneliness had pleasantly seized +upon Olva's mind. His father had always impressed upon him that the +Dunes had ever been lonely--lonely in a world that was contemptible. He +had always until now accepted this idea and found it confirmed on every +side. His six years at Rugby had encouraged him--he had despised, with +his tolerant smile, boys and masters alike; all insincere, all weak, all +to be used, if he wanted them, as he chose to use them. He had thought +often of the lonely knight--that indeed should be his attitude to the +world. + +But now, suddenly, as the scattered Cambridge houses with their dull +yellow lights began to creep stealthily through the mist, upon the road, +he knew for the first time that loneliness could be terrible. He +was hurrying now, although he had not formerly been conscious of it, +hurrying into the lights and comforts and noise of the town. There might +only be for him now a night and day of freedom, but, during that time, +he must not, he must not be alone. The patter of Bunker's feet beside +him pleased him. Bunker was now a fact of great importance to him. + +And now he could see further. He could see that he must always now, from +the consciousness of the thing that he had done, he alone. The actual +moment of striking his blow had put an impassable gulf between his soul +and all the world. Bodies might touch, hands might be grasped, +voices ring together, always now his soul must be alone. Only, that +Something--of whose Presence he had been, in that instant, aware--could +keep his company. They two . . . they two. . . . + +The suburbs of Cambridge had closed about him. Those dreary little +streets, empty as it seemed of all life, facing him sullenly with their +sodden little yellow lamps, shivering, grumbling, he could fancy, in +the chill of that November evening, eyed him with suspicion. He walked +through them now, with his shoulders back, his head up. He could fancy +how, to-morrow, their dull placidity would be wrung by the discovery of +the crime. The little wood would fling its secret into the eager lap +of these decrepit witches; they would crowd to their doors, chatter it, +shout it, pull it to pieces. "Body of an Undergraduate . . . Body of an +Undergraduate. . . ." + +He turned out of their cold silence over the bridge that spanned the +river, up the path that crossed the common into the heart of the town, +Here, at once, he was in the hubbub. The little streets were mediaeval +in their narrow space, in their cobbles, in the old black, fantastic +walls that hung above them. Beauty, too, on this November evening, shone +through the misty lamplight. Beauty in the dark purple of the evening +sky, beauty in the sudden vista of grey courts with lighted windows, +like eyes, seen through stone gateways. Beauty in the sudden golden +shadows of some corner shop glittering through the mist; beauty in the +overshadowing of the many towers that were like grey clouds in mid-air. + +The little streets chattered with people--undergraduates in Norfolk +jackets, grey flannel trousers short enough to show the brightest +of socks, walked arm in arm--voices rang out--men called across the +streets--hansoms rattled like little whirlwinds along the cobbles---many +bells were ringing--dark bodies, leaning from windows, gave uncouth +cries . . . over it all the mellow lamplight. + +Into this happy confusion Olva Dune plunged. He shook off from him, as +a dog shakes water from his back, the memory of that white mist-haunted +road. Once he deliberately faced the moment when he had been sick--faced +it, heard once again the dull, lumbering sound that the body had made as +it bundled along the road, and then put it from him altogether. Now for +battle . . . his dark eyes challenged this shifting cloud of life. + +He went round to the stable where Bunker was housed, chattered with the +blue-chinned ostler, and then, for a moment, was alone with the dog. How +much had Bunker seen? How much had he understood? Was it fancy, or did +the dog crouch, the tiniest impulse, away from him as he bent to pat +him? Bunker was tired; he relapsed on to his haunches, wagged his +tail, grinned, but in his eyes there seemed, although the lamplight was +deceptive, to be the faintest shadow of an apprehension. + +"Good old dog, good old Bunker." Bunker wagged his tail, but the tiniest +shiver passed, like a thought, through his body. + +Olva left him. + +As he passed through the streets he met men whom he knew. They nodded or +flung a greeting. How strange to think that to-morrow night they would +be speaking of him in low, grave voices as one who was already dead. "I +knew the fellow quite well, strange, reserved man--nobody really knew +him. With these foreigners, you know . . ." + +Oh! he could hear them! + +He passed through the gates of Saul's. The porter touched his hat. The +great Centre Court was shrouded in mist, and out of the white veil the +grey buildings rose, gently, on every side. There were lights now in +the windows; the Chapel bell was ringing, hushed and dimmed by the heavy +air. Boots rang sharply along the stone corridors. Olva crossed the +court towards his room. + +Suddenly, from the very heart of the mist, sharply, above the sound of +the Chapel bell, a voice called-- + +"Carfax! Carfax!" + +Olva stayed: for an instant the blood ran from his body, his knees +quivered, his face was as white as the mist. Then he braced himself--he +knew the voice. + +"Hullo, Craven, is that you?" + +"Who's that? . . . Can't see in this mist." + +"Dune." + +"Hullo, Dune. I say, do you know what's happened to Carfax?" + +"Happened? No--why?" + +"Well, I can't find him anywhere. I wanted to get him for Bridge. He +ought to be back by now." + +"Back? Where's he been?" + +"Going over to see some aunt or other at Grantchester--ought to be back +by now." + +An aunt?--No, Rose Midgett. + +"No--I've no idea--haven't seen him since yesterday." + +"Been out for a walk?" + +"Yes, just took my dog for a bit." + +"See you in Hall?" + +"Right--o!" + +The voice began again calling under the windows--"Carfax! Carfax!" + +Olva climbed the stairs to his rooms. + + + +CHAPTER II + +BUNNING + +1 + +He went into Hall. He sat amongst the particular group of his own year +who were considered the _elite_. There was Cardillac there, brilliant, +flashing Cardillac. There was Bobby Galleon, fat, good-natured, sleepy, +intelligent in an odd bovine way. There was Craven, young, ardent, +hail-fellow-well-met. There was Lawrence, burly back for the University +in Rugby, unintelligent, kind and good-tempered unless he were drunk. + +There were others. They all sat in their glory, noisily happy. Somewhere +in the distance on a raised dais were the Dons gravely pompous. Every +now and again word was brought that the gentlemen were making too much +noise. The Master might be observed drinking elaborately, ceremoniously +with some guest. Madden, the Service Tutor, flung his shrill treble +voice above the general hubbub-- + +"But, my dear Ross, if you had only observed---" + +"Where is Carfax?" came suddenly from Lawrence. He asked Craven, who +was, of course, the devoted friend of Carfax. Craven had large brown +eyes, a charming smile, a prominent chin, rather fat routed cheeks and +short brown hair that curled a little. He gave the impression of eager +good-temper and friendliness. To-night he looked worried. "I don't +know," he said, "I can't understand it. He said this morning that he'd +be here to-night and make up a four at Bridge. He went off to see an +aunt or some one at Grantchester!" + +"Perhaps," said Bobby Galleon gravely, "he had an exeat and has gone up +to town." + +"But he'd have said something--sure. And the porter hasn't seen him. He +would have been certain to know." + +Olva was never expected to talk much. His reserve was indeed rather +popular. The entirely normal and ordinary men around him appreciated +this mystery. "Rum fellow, Dune . . . nobody knows him." His high dark +colour, his dignity, his courtesy had about it something distinguished +and romantic. "He'll do something wonderful one day, _you_ bet. Why, if +he only chose to play up at footer there's nothing he couldn't do." + +Even the brilliant Cardillac, thin, dark, handsome leader of fashion and +society, admitted the charm. + +Now, however, Olva, looking up, quietly said-- + +"I expect his aunt's kept him to dinner. _He'll_ turn up." + +But of course he wouldn't turn up. He was lying in the heart of that +crushed, dripping fern with his leg doubled under him. It wasn't often +that one killed a man with one blow; the signet ring that he wore on the +little finger of his right hand--a Dune ring of great antiquity--must +have had something to do with it. + +He turned it round thoughtfully on his finger. Robert, an old, old +trembling waiter, said in a shaking voice-- + +"There's salmi of wild game, sir--roast beef." + +"Beef, please," Olva said quietly. + +He was considering now that all these men would to-morrow night have +only one thought, one idea. They would remember everything, the very +slightest thing that he had done. They would discuss it all from every +possible point of view. + +"I always knew he'd do something. . . ." He suddenly knew quite sharply, +as though a voice had spoken to him, that he could not endure this +any longer. There was gathering upon him the conviction that in a few +minutes, rising from his place, he would cry out to the hall--"I, +Olva Dune, this afternoon, killed Carfax. You will find his body in the +wood." He repeated the words to himself under his breath. "You will find +his body in the wood. . . ." "You will find . . ." + +He finished his beef very quietly and then got up. + +Craven appealed to him. "I say, Dune, do come and make a four--my rooms, +half-past eight--Lawrence and Galleon are the other two." + +Olva looked down at him with his grave, rather melancholy smile. + +"Afraid I can't to-night, Craven; must work." + +"Don't overdo it," Cardillac said. + +The eyes of the two men met. Olva knew that Cardillac--"Cards" as he was +to his friends, liked him; he himself did not hate Cardillac. He was the +only man in the College for whom he had respect. They were both of them +demanding the same thing from the world. They both of them despised +their fellow-creatures. + +Olva, climbing the stairs to his room, stood for a moment in the dark, +before he turned on the lights. He spoke aloud in a whisper, as though +some one were with him in the room. + +"This won't do," he said. "This simply won't do. Your nerves are going. +You've only got a few hours of it. Hold on--Think of the beast that he +was. Think of the beast that he was." + +He walked slowly back to the door and turned on the electric lights. He +did not sport his oak--if people came to see him he would rather like +it: in some odd way it would be more satisfactory than that he should go +to see them--but people did not often come to see him. + +He laid out his books on the table and sat down. He had grown fond of +this room. The walls were distempered white. The ceiling was old and +black with age. There was a deep red-tiled fireplace. One wall had low +brown bookshelves. There were two pictures: one an Around reprint of +Matsys' "Portrait of Aegidius"--that wise, kind, tender face; the other +an admirable photogravure of Durer's "Selbstbildnis." The books were +mainly to do with his favourite historical period--the Later Roman +Empire. There was some poetry--an edition of Browning, Swinburne's +_Poems and Ballads_, Ernest Dowson, Rossetti, Francis Thompson. There +was an edition of Hazlitt, a set of the _Spectator_, one or two novels, +_Henry Lessingham_ and _The Roads_ by Galleon, _To Paradise_ by Lester, +Meredith's _One of Our Conquerors_ and _Diana of the Crossways, The +Ambassadors_ and _Awkward Age_ of Henry James. + +On the mantelpiece above the fireplace there were three deep blue bowls, +the only ornaments in the room. Beyond the little diamond-paned windows, +beyond the dark mysteries of the Fellows' garden, a golden mist rose +from the lamps of the street, there were stars in the sky. + +He faced his books. For a quarter of an hour he saw before him the +hanging, baggy cheeks, the white, staring eyes, the glittering ring on +the weak finger. His hands began to tremble. . . . + +There was a timid knock on the door, and he was instantly sure that the +body had been found, and that they had come to arrest him. He stood +back from the door with his hand pressing on the table. It was almost a +relief to him that the summons had come so soon--it would presently all +be over. + +"Come in," he said, and gave one look at the golden mist, at the stars, +at the tender face of Aegidius. + +The door was opened slowly with fumbling hands, and there stood there +a large, fat, clumsy, shapeless creature, with a white face, a hooked +nose, an open, foolish mouth. + +The reaction was hysterical. To expect a summons to death and public +shame, to find--Bunning. Bunning--that soft, blithering, emotional, +religious, middle-class maniac--Bunning! "Soft-faced" Bunning, as he was +called, was the man of Olva's year in whom the world at large found most +entertainment. The son of some country clergyman, kicked and battered +through the slow, dreary years at some small Public School, he had come +up to Saul's with an intense, burning desire to make a mark. He was +stupid, useless at games, having only somewhere behind his fat ugly body +a longing to be connected with some cause, some movement, some person of +whom he might make a hero. + +He had, of course, within the first fortnight of his arrival, plunged +himself into dire disgrace. He had asked Lawrence, coming like a young +god from Marlborough, in to coffee; they had made him drunk and laughed +at his hysterical tears: in his desire for popularity he had held a +gathering in his room, with the original intention of coffee, cakes and +gentle conversation; the evening had ended with the arrival of all his +furniture and personal effects upon the grass of the court below his +windows. + +He had been despised by the Dons, buffeted and derided by his fellow +undergraduates. Especially had Carfax and Cardillac made his life a +burden to him, and whenever it seemed that there was nothing especial +to do, the cry arose, "Let's go and rag Bunning," and five minutes later +that fat body would tremble at the sound of many men climbing the wooden +stairs, at the loud banging on his wooden door, at the cry, "Hullo, +Bunning--we've come for some coffee." + +Then, towards the end of the first year, the Cambridge Christian Union +flung out its net and caught him. His attempt at personal popularity had +failed here as thoroughly as it had failed at school--now for his soul. +He found that the gentlemen of his college who were members of the +Christian Union were eager for his company. They did not laugh at his +conversation nor mock his proffered hospitalities. They talked to him, +persuaded him that his soul was in jeopardy, and carried him off during +part of the Long Vacation to the Norfolk Broads, where prayer-meetings, +collisions with other sea-faring craft, and tinned meats were the order +of the day. + +Olva had watched him with that amused incredulity that he so frequently +bestowed upon his fellow-creatures. How was this kind of animal, with +its cowardice, its stupidity, its ugliness, its uselessness, possible? +He had never spoken to Bunning, although he had once received a +note from him asking him to coffee--a piece of very considerable +impertinence. He had never assisted Carfax and Cards in their raiding +expeditions, but that was only because he considered such things +tiresome and childish. + +And now, behold, there in his doorway--incredible vision!--was the +creature--at this moment of--all others! + +"Come in," said Olva again. + +Bunning brought his large quivering body into the room and stood there, +turning his cap round and round in his hands. + +"Oh, I say---" and there he stopped. + +"Won't you sit down?" + +"No--thanks--I----" + +"In what way can I be of use to you?" + +"Oh! I say---" + +Senseless giggles, and then Bunning's mouth opened and remained open. +His eyes stared at Dune. + +"Well, what is it?" + +"Oh--my word--you know---" + +"Look here," said Olva quietly, "if you don't get on and tell me what +you want I shall do you some bodily damage. I've got work to do. Another +time, perhaps, when I am less busy----" + +Bunning was nearly in tears. "Oh, yes, I know--it's most awful +cheek--I----" + +There was a desperate silence and then he plunged out with--"Well, +you know, I--that is--we-I--sort of wondered whether, you know, you'd +care--not if you're awfully busy of course--but whether you'd care +to come and hear Med. Tetloe preach to-night. I know it's most awful +cheek----" He was nearly in tears. + +Olva kept an amazed silence. Life! What an amusing thing!--that he, with +his foot on the edge of disaster, death, should be invited by Bunning to +a revival meeting. He understood it, of course. Bunning had been sent, +as an ardent missionary is sent into the heart of West Africa, to invite +Olva to consider his soul. He was expecting, poor creature, to be kicked +violently down the twisting wooden stairs. On another occasion he would +be sent to Lawrence or Cardillac, and then his expectations would be +most certainly fulfilled. But it was for the cause--at least these +sinners should be given the opportunity of considering their souls. If +they refused to consider them, they must not complain if they find the +next world but little to their fancy. + +No one had ever attacked Olva before on this subject. His reserve had +been more alarming to the Soul Hunters than the coarse violence of a +Cardillac or a Carfax. And now Bunning--Bunning of all people in this +ridiculous world--had ventured. Well, there was pluck necessary for +that. Bunning, the coward, had done a braver thing than many more +stalwart men would have cared to do. There was bravery there! + +Moreover, why should not Olva go? He could not sit alone in his room, +his nerves would soon be too many for him. What did it matter? His last +evening of freedom should be spent as no other evening of his life had +been spent. . . . Moreover, might there not be something behind this +business? Might he not, perhaps, be shown to-night some clue to the +presence of that Power that had spoken to him in the wood? Through all +the tangled confusion of his thoughts, through the fear and courage +there ran this note-where was God? . . . God the only person to Whom he +now could speak, because God knew. + +Might not this idiot of a Bunning have been shown the way to the +mystery? + +"Yes," said Olva, smiling. "I'll come, if you won't mind sitting down +and smoking for a quarter of an hour, while I finish this--have a drink, +will you?" + +Bunning's consternation at Olva's acceptance was amusing. He dropped his +cap, stopped to pick it up, gasped. That Dune should really come! + +"You'll come?" he spluttered out. Never in his wildest imaginings had he +fancied such a thing. Dune, the most secret, reserved, mysterious man in +the college--Dune, whose sarcastic smile was considered more terrifying +than Lawrence's mailed fist--Dune, towards whom in the back of his mind +there had been paid that reverence that belongs only to those who are of +another world. + +Never, in anything that had happened to him, had Bunning been so +terrified as he had been by this visit to Dune. Watson Morley, the +Christian Union man, had insisted that it was his duty and therefore +he had come, but it had taken him ten minutes of agony to climb those +stairs. And now Dune had accepted. . . . + +The colour flooded his cheeks and faded again. He sat down clumsily in +a chair, felt for a pipe that he smoked unwillingly because it was the +manly thing to do, spurted some Apollinaris into a glass and over +the tablecloth, struck many matches vainly, dropped tobacco on to the +carpet. His heart was beating like a hammer! + +How men would stare when they saw him with Dune. In his heart was the +uneasy knowledge that had Dune proposed staying there in his rooms +and talking instead of going to Little St. Agnes and listening to the +Reverend Med. Tetloe, he would have stayed. This was not right, it was +not Christian. The world gaped below Bunning's heavy feet. + +At last Dune said: "I'm ready, let's go." They went out. + + +2 + +Little St. Agnes was apparently so named because it was the largest +church in Cambridge. It was of no ancient date, but it was grim, grey, +dark--admirably suited to an occasion like the present. Under the high +roof, lost in a grey cloud, resolving themselves into rows of white, +intense faces, sat hundreds of undergraduates. + +They were seated on uncomfortable, unstable chairs, and the noise of +their uneasy movements sent squeaks up and down the building as though +it had been a barn filled with terrified rats. + +Far in the distance, perched on a high pulpit, was a little white +figure--an old gaunt man with a bony hand and a grey beard. Behind him +again there was darkness. Only, in all the vast place, the white body +and rows of white faces raised to it. + +Olva and Bunning found seats in a corner. A slight soft voice said, with +the mysterious importance of one about to deliver an immense secret, +"You will look in the Mission Books, Hymn 330. 'Oh! for the arms of +Jesus.' I want you to think for a moment of the meaning of the words +before you sing." + +There followed the rustling of many pages and then a heavy, emotional +silence. Olva read the words and found them very sentimental, very bad +verse and rather unpleasantly fall of blood and pain. Every one stood; +the chairs creaked from one end of the building to the other, an immense +volume of sound rose to the roof. + +Olva felt that the entire church was seized with emotion. He saw that +Bunning's hand was trembling, he knew that many eyes were filled with +tears. For himself, he understood at once that that distant figure in +white was here to make a dramatic appeal--dramatic as certainly as the +appeal that a famous actor might make in London. That was his job-- +he was out for it---and anything in the way of silence or noise, of +darkness or light, that could add to the effect would be utilized. Olva +knew also that nine-tenths of the undergraduates were present there for +the same purpose. They wished to have their emotions played upon; they +wished also to be reassured about life; they wished to confuse this +dramatic emotion with a sincere desire for salvation. They wished, it is +true, to be good, but they wished, a great deal more, to be dramatically +stirred. + +Olva was reminded of the tensity of the atmosphere at a bull-fight that +he had once seen in Madrid. Here again was the same intensity. . . . + +He saw, therefore, in this first singing of the hymn, that this place, +this appeal, would be of no use in his own particular need. This +deliberate evoking of dramatic effect had nothing to do with that silent +consciousness of God. This place, this appeal, was fantastic, childish, +beside that event that had that afternoon sent Carfax into space. Let +these men hurry to the wood, let them find the sodden body, let them +face then the reality of Life. . . . + +Again, as before in Hall, he was tempted to rise and cry out: "I have +killed Carfax. I have killed Carfax. What of all your theories now?" +That trembling ass, Bunning, singing now at the top of his voice, +shaking with the fervour of it, let him know that he had brought a +murderer to the sacred gathering--again Olva had to concentrate all his +mind, his force, his power upon the conquest of his nerves. For a moment +it seemed as though he would lose all control; he stood, his knees +quivering beneath him--then strength came back to him. + +After the hymn the address. There was tense, rapt silence. The little +voice went on, soft, low, sweet, pleading, very clear. There must be +many men who had not yet found God. There were those, perhaps, in the +Church tonight who had not even thought about God. There were those +again who, maybe, had some crime on their conscience and did not know +how to get rid of it. Would they not come to Christ and ask His help? + +Stories were told. Story of the young man who cursed his mother, broke +his leg, and arrived home just too late to see her alive. Story of the +friend who died to save another friend, and how many souls were saved +by this self-sacrifice. Story of the Undergraduate who gambled and drank +and was converted by a barmaid and eventually became a Bishop. + +All these examples of God's guidance. Then, for an instant, there is a +great silence. The emotion is now beating in waves against the wall. The +faces are whiter now, hands are clenched, lips bitten. Suddenly there +leaps upon them all that gentle voice, now a trumpet. "Who is for the +Lord? Who is for the Lord?" + +Then gently again,--"Let us pray in silence for a few minutes." . . . +A great creaking of chairs, more intense silence. At last the voice +again--"Will those who are sure that they are saved stand up?" Dead +silence--no one moves. "Will those who wish to be saved stand up?" With +one movement every one--save only Olva, dark in his corner--stands up. +Bunning's eyes are flaming, his body is trembling from head to foot. + +"Christ is amongst you! Christ is in the midst of you!" + +Suddenly, somewhere amongst the shadows a voice breaks out--"Oh! my God! +Oh! my God!" Some one is crying--some one else is crying. All about the +building men are falling on to their knees. Bunning has crashed on to +his--his face buried in his hands. + +The little gentle voice again--"I shall be delighted to speak to any of +those whose consciences are burdened. If any who wish to see me would +wait. . . ." + +The souls are caught for God. + +Prayers followed, another hymn. Bunning with red eyes has contemplated +his sins and is in a glow of excited repentance. It is over. + +As Olva rose to leave the building he knew that this was not the path +for which he was searching. Not here was that terrible Presence. . . . +The men poured in a black crowd out into the night. As Olva stepped into +the darkness he knew that the terror was only now beginning for him. +Standing there now with no sorrow, remorse, repentance, nevertheless +he knew that all night, alone in his room, he would be fighting with +devils. . . . + +Bunning, nervously, stammered--"If you don't mind--I think I'm going +round for a minute." + +Olva nodded good-night. As he went on his way to Saul's, grimly, it +seemed humorous that "soft-faced" Bunning should be going to confess his +thin, miserable little sins. + +For him, Olva Dune, only a dreadful silence. . . . + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE BODY COMES TO TOWN + +1 + +And after all he slept, slept dreamlessly. He woke to the comfortable +accustomed voices of Mrs. Ridge, his bedmaker, and Miss Annett, her +assistant. It was a cold frosty morning; the sky showed through the +window a cloudless blue. + +He could hear the deep base voice of Mrs. Ridge in her favourite phrase: +"Well, I _don't_ think, Miss Annett. You won't get over me," and Miss +Annett's mildly submissive, "I should think _not_ indeed, Mrs. Ridge." + +Lying back in bed he surveyed with a mild wonder the fact that he had +thus, easily, slept. He felt, moreover, that that body had already, in +the division of to-day from yesterday, lost much of its haunting power. +In the clean freshness of the day, in the comfort of the casual +voices of the two women in the other room, in the smell of the coffee, +yesterday's melodrama seemed incredible. It had never happened; soon he +would see from his window Carfax's hulking body cross the court. No, +it was real enough, only it did not concern him. He watched it, as a +spectator, indifferent, callous. There _was_ a change in his life, but +it was a change of another kind. In the strange consciousness that he +now had of some vast and vital Presence, the temporal fact of the thing +that he had done lost all importance. There was something that he had +got to find, to discover. If--and the possibility seemed large now in +the air of this brilliant morning--he were, after all, to escape, +he would not rest until he had made his discovery. Some new life was +stirring within him. He wanted now to fling himself amongst men; he +would play football, he would take his place in the college, he would +test everything--leave no stone unturned. No longer a cynical observer, +he would be an adventurer . . . if they would let him alone. + +He got out of bed, stripped, and stood over his bath. The cold air beat +upon his skin; he rejoiced in the sense of his fitness, in the movement +of his muscles, in the splendid condition of his body. If this were to +be the last day of his freedom, it should at any rate be a splendid day. + +He had his bath, flung on a shirt and trousers and went into his +sitting-room, bright now with the morning sun, so that the blue bowls +and the red tiles shone, and even the dark face of Aegidius was lighted +with the gleam. + +Mrs. Ridge was short and stout, with white hair, a black bonnet, and the +deepest of voices. Her eagerness to deliver herself of all the things +that she wanted to say prevented full-stops and commas from being of any +use to her. Miss Annett was admirably suited as a companion, being long, +thin and silent, and intended by nature to be subservient to the more +masterful of her sex. With any man she was able easily to hold her own; +with Mrs. Ridge she was bending, bowed, humility. + +Mrs. Ridge grinned like a dog at the appearance of Olva. "Good mornin', +sir, and a nice frosty cold sort o' day it is with Miss Annett just +breakin' one of your cups, sir, 'er 'ands bein' that cold and a cup +bein' an easy thing to slip out of the 'and as you must admit yourself, +sir. Pore Miss Annett is _that_ distressed." + +Miss Annett did indeed look downcast. "I can't think---" she began. + +"It's quite all right, Miss Annett," said Olva. "I think it's wonderful +that you break the things as seldom as you do. The china was of no kind +of value." + +It was known in the college that Mr. Dune was the only gentleman of +whom Mrs. Ridge could be said to be afraid; she was proud of him and +frightened of him. She said to Miss Annett, when that lady made her +first appearance-- + +"And I can tell _you_, Miss Annett, that you need never 'ave no fear of +bein' introjuced to Royalty one of these days after bein' with that Mr. +Dune, because it puts you in practice, I can tell you, and a nice spoken +gentleman 'e is and _quiet_--never does a thing 'e shouldn't, but wicked +under it all I'll be bound. 'E's no chicken, you take it from me. Born +yesterday? I _don't_ think. . . ." + +The women faded away, and he was left to himself. After breakfast he +thought that he would write to his father and give him an account of +the thing that he had done; if he escaped suspicion he would tear it up. +Also he was determined on two things: one was that if he were accused +of the crime, he would at once admit everything; the other was that he +would do his utmost, until he was accused, to lead his life exactly as +though he were in no way concerned. He had now an odd assurance that it +was not by his public condemnation that he was intended to work out the +results of his act. Why was he so assured of that? What was it that was +now so strangely moving him? He faced the world, armed, resolved. It +seemed to him that it was important for him, now, to live. This was +the first moment of his life that existence had appeared to be of any +moment. He wanted time to continue his search. + +He wrote to his father--- + + MY DEAR FATHER,--- + + I have just been arrested on the charge of murdering an undergraduate +here called Carfax. It is quite true that I killed him. We met +yesterday, in the country, quarrelled, and I struck him, hitting him on +the chin. He fell instantly, breaking his neck. He was muck of the worst +kind. I had known him at Rugby; he was always a beast of the lowest +order. He was ruining a fellow here, taking his money, making him drink, +doing for him; also ruining a girl in a tobacconist's shop. All this was +no business of mine, but we had always loathed one another. I think when +I hit him I wanted to kill him. I am not, in any way, sorry, except that +suddenly I do not want to die. You are the only person in the world for +whom I care; you will understand. I have not disgraced the name; it was +killing a rat. I think that you had better not come to see me. I face it +better alone. We have gone along well together, you and I. I send you my +love. Good-bye, OLVA. + +As he finished it, he wondered, Would this be sent? Would they come for +him? Perhaps, at this moment, they had found the body. He put the letter +carefully in the pocket of his shirt. Then, suddenly, he was confronted +with the risk. Suppose that he were to be taken ill, to faint, to forget +the thing. . . . No, the letter must wait. They would allow him to +write, if the time came. + +He took the letter, flung it into the fire, watched it burn. He felt as +though, in the writing of it, he had communicated with his father. The +old man would understand. + + +2 + +About eleven o'clock Craven came to see him. Craven's father had been +a Fellow of Trinity and Professor of Chinese to the University. He had +died some five years ago and now the widow and young Craven's sister +lived in Cambridge. Craven had tried, during his first term, to make +a friend of Olva, but his happy, eager attitude to the whole world +had seemed crude and even priggish to Olva's reserve, and all Craven's +overtures had been refused, quietly, kindly, but firmly. Craven had not +resented the repulse; it was not his habit to resent anything, and as +the year had passed, Olva had realized that Craven's impetuous desire +for the friendship of the world was something in him perfectly natural +and unforced. Olva had discovered also that Craven's devotion to his +mother and sister was the boy's leading motive in life. Olva had only +seen the girl, Margaret, once; she had been finishing her education in +Dresden, and he remembered her as dark, reserved, aloof--opposite indeed +from her brother's cheerful good-fellowship. But for Rupert Craven this +girl was his world; she was obviously cleverer, more temperamental than +he, and he felt this and bowed to it. + +These things Olva liked in him, and had the boy not been so intimate +with Cardillac and Carfax, Olva might have made advances, Craven took a +man of the Carfax type with extreme simplicity; he thought his geniality +and physical strength excused much coarseness and vulgarity. He was +still young enough to have the Public School code--the most amazing +thing in the history of the British nation--and because Carfax bruised +his way as a forward through many football matches, and fought a +policeman on Parker's Piece one summer evening, Rupert Craven thought +him a jolly good fellow. Carfax also had had probably, at the bottom of +his dirty, ignoble soul, more honest affection for Craven than for +any one in the world. He had tried to behave himself in that ingenuous +youth's company. + +Now young Craven, disturbed, unhappy, anxious, stood in Olva's door. + +"I say, Dune, I hope I'm not disturbing you?" + +"Not a bit." + +"It's a rotten time to come." Craven came in and sat down. "I'm awfully +worried." + +"Worried?" + +"Yes, about Carfax. No one knows what's happened to him. He may have +gone up to town, of course, but if he did he went without an exeat. +Thompson saw him go out about two-thirty yesterday afternoon---was +going to Grantchester, because he yelled it back to Cards, who asked him +where he was off to--not been heard or seen since." + +"Oh, he's sure to be all right," Olva said easily. + +"He's up in town!" + +"Yes, I expect he is, but I don't know that that makes it any better. +There's some woman he's been getting in a mess with I know--didn't say +anything to me about it, but I heard of it from Cards." + +"Well--" Olva slowly lit his pipe--"there's something else too. He was +always in with a lot of these roughs in the town--stable men and the +rest. He used to get tips from them, he always said, and he's had awful +rows with some of them before now. You know what a temper he's got, +especially when he's been drinking at all. I shouldn't wonder if he +hadn't a fight one fine day and got landed on the chin, or something, +and left." + +"Oh! Carfax can look after himself all right. He's used to that kind of +company." + +Olva gazed, through the smoke of his pipe, dreamily into the fire. + +"You don't like him," Craven said suddenly. + +Olva turned slowly in his chair and looked at him. "Why! What makes you +say that?" + +"Something Carfax told me the other day. We were sitting one evening in +his room and he suddenly said to me, 'You know there _is_ one fellow in +this place who hates me like poison--always has hated me.' I asked him +who it was. He said it was you. I was immensely surprised, because I'd +always thought you very good friends--as good friends as you ever are +with any one, Dune. You don't exactly take any of us to your breast, you +know!" + +Dune smiled. "No, I think I've made a mistake in keeping so much alone. +It looks as though I thought myself so damned superior. But I assure you +Carfax was--is--quite wrong. We've been friendly enough all our days." + +"No," said Craven slowly, "I don't think you do like him. I've watched +you since. He's an awfully good fellow---really---at heart, you know. +I do hope things are all right. I sent off a wire to his uncle in town +half an hour ago to ask whether he were there. I don't know why I'm so +anxious. . . . It's all right, of course, but I'm uneasy." + +"Well, you're quite wrong about my disliking Carfax," Olva went on. "And +I think, altogether, it's about time I came off my perch. For one thing +I'm going to take up Rugger properly." + +"Oh, but that's splendid! Will you play against St. Martin's to-morrow? +It will relieve Lawrence like anything if you will. They've got Cards, +Worcester and Tundril, and they want a fourth Three badly. My word, +Dune, that would be splendid. We'll have you a Blue after all." + +"A little late for that, I'm afraid." + +"Not a bit of it. They keep on changing the Threes. Of course Cards is +having a good shot at it, but he isn't down against the Harlequins on +Saturday, and mighty sick he is about it." Craven got up to go. "Well, +I must be moving. Perhaps Carfax is back in his rooms. There may be word +of him anyway." + +Olva's pipe was out. The matchbox on the mantelpiece was empty. He felt +in his pocket for the little silver box that he always carried. It was +a box, with the Dune arms stamped upon it, that his father had given to +him. He had it, he remembered, yesterday when he set out on his walk. +He felt in all his pockets. These were the clothes that he was wearing +yesterday. Perhaps it was in his bedroom. He went in to look, and Craven +meanwhile watched him from the door. + +"What have you lost?" + +"Nothing." + +It was not in the bedroom. He felt in the overcoat that he had been +wearing. It was not there. + +"Nothing. It's a matchbox of mine--must have dropped out of a pocket." + +"Sorry. Daresay it will turn up. Well, see you later." + +Craven vanished; then suddenly put his head in through the door. + +"Oh, I say, Dune, come in to supper to-morrow night. Home I mean. My +sister's back from Dresden, and I'd like you to know her. I'm sure you'd +get on." + +"Thanks very much, I'd like to come." Olva stood in the centre of the +room, his hands clenched, his face white. He must have dropped the box +in the wood. He had it on his walk, he had lit his pipe. . . . Of course +they would find it. Here then was the end. Now for the first time +the horror of death came upon him, filing the room, turning it black, +killing the fire, the colour. His body was frozen with horror--already +his throat was choking, his eyes burning. The room swung slowly round +him, turning, turning. "They shan't take me. . . . They shan't take +me." His face was cruel, his mouth twisted. He saw the little silver box +lying there, open, exposed, upon the grass, glittering against the dull +green. He turned to the window with desperate, hunted eyes. Already he +fancied that he heard their steps upon the stair. He stood, his body +flung back, his hands pressing upon the table. "They shan't take me. +. . . They shan't take me." The door turned, slowly opened. It was Mrs. +Ridge with a duster. He gave a little sigh and rolled over, tumbling +back against the chair, unconscious. + + +3 + +"There, sir, now I _do_ 'ope as you'll be all right. Too much book-work, +_that's_ what it is, but if a doctor----" + +Olva was lying in his chair now, very pale, his eyes closed. + +"No, thank you, Mrs. Ridge. It's all right now, thank you--quite all +right. Yes, I'm ready for lunch--very silly of me." + +Mrs. Ridge departed to fetch the luncheon-dish from the College kitchens +and to tell the porter Thompson all about it on the way. "Pore young +gentleman, there 'e was as you might say white as a sheet all of a 'eap. +It gave me a turn _I_ can assure you, Mr. Thompson." + +His lunch was untasted. It seemed to him that he had now lost all power +of control. He could only face the inevitable fact of his approaching +capture. The sudden discovery of the loss of the matchbox had clanged +the facts about his ears with the discordant scream of closing gates. +He was captured, caught irretrievably, like a rat in a trap. He did +not wish to be caught like a rat in a trap. This was a free world. +Air, light, colour were about him on every side. To die, fighting, on +a hill-top, in a battle-field, that was one thing. To see them crowding +into his room, to be dragged into a dark airless place, to be caught by +the neck and throttled. . . . + +Mrs. Ridge cleared away the lunch with much shaking of the head. Olva +lay in his chair watching, with eyes that never closed nor stirred, the +crackling golden fire. Beyond the window the world was of blue steel. He +could fancy the still gleaming waters of the lake that stretched beyond +the grass lawns; he could fancy the red brick of the buildings that +clung like some frieze to the horizon. Along the stone courtyard rang +the heavy football boots of men going to the Upper Fields. He could +see their red and blue jerseys, their short blue trousers, their tight +stockings--the healthy swing of their bodies as they tramped. Men would +be going down to the river now--freshmen would be hearing reluctantly, +some of them with tears, the coarse and violent criticism of the +Third Year men who were tabbing them. All the world was moving. He was +surrounded, there in his silent room, with an amazing sense of life. He +seemed to realize, for the first time, what it was that Cambridge was +doing . . . all this physical life marching through the cold bright air, +strength, poetry, the great stir and enthusiasm of the Young Blood of +the world . . . and he, waiting for those steps on the stair, for those +grim faces in the open door. The world left him alone. As the afternoon +advanced, the tramp of the footballers was no longer heard, silence, +bound by the shining frost of the beautiful day, lay about the grey +buildings. Soon a melody of thrumming kettles would rise into the air, +in every glowing room tea would be preparing, the glorious luxury +of rest after stinging exercise would fill the courts with worship, +unconsciously driven, skywards, to the Powers of Health. And then, after +years of time, as it seemed, faintly through the closed windows at +last came the single note of St. Martin's bell. That meant that it was +quarter to five. Almost unconsciously he rose, put on his cap and gown +and passed through the twilit streets that were stealing now into a dim +glow under their misty lamps. The great chapel of St. Martin's, planted +like some couchant animal grey and mysterious against the blue of the +evening sky, flung through its windows the light of its many candles. +He found a seat at the back of the dark high-hanging ante-chapel. He +was alone there. Towards the inner chapel the white-robed choir moved +softly; for a moment the curtains were drawn aside revealing the misty +candle-light within; the white choir passed through--the curtains Fell +again, leaving Olva alone with the great golden trumpeting angels above +the organ for his company. + +Then great peace came upon him. Some one had taken his soul, softly, +with gentle hands, and was caring for it. He was suddenly freed from +responsibility, and as the soothing comfort stole about him he knew that +now he had simply to wait to be shown what it was that he must do. This +was not the strange indifference of yesterday, nor the physical strength +of the morning . . . peace, such peace as he had never before known, had +come to him. From the heart of the darkness up into the glowing beauty +of the high roof the music rose. It was Wednesday afternoon and the +voices were un accompanied. Soon the _Insanae et Vanae_ climbed in wave +after wave of melody, was caught, held, lingered in the air, softly died +again. + +Olva was detached--he saw his body beaten, imprisoned, tortured, killed. +But he was not there. He was riding heaven in quest of God. + + +4 + +At the gates of his college the news met him. He had been waiting for +it so long a time that now he had to act his horror. It seemed to him an +old, old story--this tale of a murder in Sannet Wood. + +Groups of men were waiting in the cloisters, waiting for the doors to +open for "Hall." As Olva came towards the gates an undergraduate, white, +breathless, brushed past him and burst into the quiet, murmuring groups. + +"My God, have you heard?" + +Olva passed through the iron gates. The groups broke. He had the +impression of many men standing back--black in the dim light--waiting, +listening. + +There was an instant's silence. Then, the man's voice breaking into a +shrill scream, the news came tumbling out. It seemed to flash a sudden +glare upon the blackness. + +"It's Carfax--Carfax--he's been murdered." + +The word was tossed, caught, flung against the stone pillars-- +"Murdered! Murdered! Murdered!" + +"They've just brought his body in now, found it in Sannet Wood +this evening; a working man found it. Been there two days. His neck +broken----" + +The mysterious groups scattered into strange fantastic shapes. There was +a pause and then a hundred voices began at once. Some one spoke to Olva +and he answered; his voice low and stern. . . . On every side confusion. + +But for himself, like steel armour encasing his body, was the strange +calm--aloof, unmoved, dispassionate--that had come to him half an hour +ago. + +He was alone--like God. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +MARGARET CRAVEN + +1 + +It is essential to the maintenance of the Cambridge spirit that there +should be no melodrama. Into that placid and speculative air real +life tumbles with a resounding shock and the many souls that have been +building, these many years, with careful elaboration, walls of defence +and protection find themselves suddenly naked and indecent before the +world. For that army of men who use Cambridge as a gate to the world +in front of them the passage through the narrow streets is too swift to +afford more in after life than a pleasant reminiscence. It is because +Cambridge is the bridge between stern discipline and pleasant freedom +that it is so happily remembered; but there are those who adopt +Cambridge as their abiding home, and it is for these that real life is +impossible. + +Beneath these grey walls as the years pass slowly the illusions grow. +Closer and closer creep the walls of experience, softer and thicker +are the garments worn to keep out the cold, gentler and gentler are +the speculations born of a good old Port and a knowledge of the Greek +language. About the High Tables voices softly dispute the turning of a +phrase, eyes mildly salute the careful dishes of a wisely chosen cook, +gentle patronage is bestowed upon the wild ruffian of the outer world. +Many bells ring, many fires are burning, many lamps are lit, many leaves +of many books are turned--busily, busily hands are raising walls of +self-defence; the world at first regretted, then patronized, is now +forgotten . . . hush, he sleeps, his feet in slippers, his head upon +the softest cushion, his hand still covering the broad page of his +dictionary. . . . Nothing, not birth nor love, nor death must disturb +his repose. + +And here, in the heart of the Sannet Wood, is death from violence, +death, naked, crude, removed from all sense of life as we know it. The +High Tables avoid Carfax's body with all possible discretion; for an +hour or two the Port has lost its flavour, Homer is hidden by a +cloud, the gentle chatter is curtailed and silenced. Amongst the lower +order--those wild and turbulent undergraduates--it is the only topic. +Carfax is very generally known; he had ridden, he had rowed, he had +played cricket. A member of the only sporting club in the University, he +had been known as a "real sportsman and a damned good fellow" because he +was often drunk and frequently spent an evening in London . . . and now +he is dead. + +In Saul's a number of very young spirits awake to the consciousness of +death. Here is a red-faced hearty fellow as fit as anything one moment +and dead the next. Never before had the fact been faced that this might +happen to any one. Let the High Table dismiss it easily, it is none +so simple for those who have not had time to build up those defending +walls. For a day or two there is a hush about the place, voices are +soft, men talk in groups, the mystery is the one sensation. . . . The +time passes, there are other interests, once more the High Table can +taste its wine. Death is again bundled into noisier streets, into a +harder, shriller air. . . . + + +2 + +Olva, on the morning after the discovery of the body, heard from Mrs. +Ridge speculations as to the probable criminal. "You take _my_ word, Mr. +Dune, sir, it was one of them there nasty tramps--always 'anging round +they are, and Miss Annett was only yesterday speakin' to me of a ugly +feller comin' round to their back door and askin' for bread, weren't +you, Miss Annett?" + +"I was, indeed, Mrs. Ridge." + +"And 'im with the nastiest 'eavy blue jaw you ever saw on a man, 'adn't +'e, Miss Annett?" + +"He had, indeed, Mrs. Ridge." + +"Ah, I shouldn't wonder--nasty-sort-o'-looking feller. And that +Sannet Wood too--nasty lonely place with its old stones and +all--comfortable?--I _don't_ think." + +Olva made inquiries as to the stones. + +"Why, ever so old, they say--before Christ, I've 'eard. Used to cut up +'uman flesh and eat it like the pore natives, and there's a ugly lookin' +stone in that very wood where they did it too, or so I've 'eard. Would +you go along that way in the dark, Miss Annett?" + +"Not much--I grant _you_, Mrs. Ridge." + +"Oh yes! not likely on a dark night, I _don't_ think!--and that pore Mr. +Carfax--well, all I say is, I 'opes they catch 'im, that's all _I_ say +. . ." with further reminiscence concerning Mrs. Birch who had worked +on Carfax's staircase the last ten years and never "'ad no kind of luck. +There was that Mr. Oliver---" + +Final dismissal of Mrs. Ridge and Miss Annett. + +Meanwhile, strange enough the relief that he felt because the body was +actually removed from that wood. No longer possible now to see it lying +there with the leg bent underneath, the head falling straight back, the +ring on the finger. . . . Curious, too, that the matchbox had not been +discovered; they must have searched pretty thoroughly by now--perhaps +after all it had not been dropped there. + +But over him there had fallen a strange lassitude. He was outside, +beyond it all. + +And then Craven came to see him. The event had wrought in the boy a +great change. It was precisely with a character like Craven's that such +an incident must cleave a division between youth and manhood. He had, +until last evening, considered nothing for himself; his father's death +had occurred when he was too young to see anything in it but a perfectly +natural removal of some one immensely old. The world had seemed the +easiest, the simplest of places, his years at Rugby had been delight. +Fully free from shocks of any kind. Good health, friendship, a little +learning, these things had made the days pass swiftly. Rupert Craven had +been yesterday, a child precisely typical of the system in which he +had been drilled; now he was something different. Olva knew that he was +capable of depths of feeling because of his extraordinary devotion to +his sister. Craven had often spoken of her to Olva--"So different +from me, the most brilliant person in the world. Her music is really +wonderful----people who know, I mean, all say so. But you see we're the +same age--only two of us. We've always been everything to one another." + +Olva wondered why Craven had told him. It was not as though they had +ever been very intimate, but Craven seemed to think that Olva and his +sister would have much in common. + +Olva wondered, as he looked at Craven standing there in the doorway, how +this sister would take the change in her brother. He had suddenly, as he +looked at Craven, a perception of the number of lives with whose course +his action had involved him. The wheel was beginning to turn. . . . + +The light had gone from Craven's eyes. His vitality and energy had +slipped from him, leaving his body heavy, unalert. He seemed puzzled, +awed; there were dark lines under his eyes, his cheeks were pale and his +mouth had lost its tendency to smile, its lines were heavy; but, above +all, his expression was interrogative. Finally, he was puzzled. + +For an instant, as he looked at him, Olva felt that he could not +face him, then with a deliberate summoning of the resources of his +temperament he strung himself to whatever the day might bring forth. + +"This is awful----" + +"Yes." + +"Of course it doesn't matter to you, Dune, as it does to me, but I knew +the fellow so awfully well. It's horrible, horrible. That he should have +died--like that." + +Olva broke out suddenly. "After all not such a bad way to die--swift +enough. I don't suppose Carfax valued life especially." + +"Oh! he enjoyed it--enjoyed it like anything. And that it should be +taken so trivially, for no reason at all. It seems to be almost certain +that it was some tramp or other--robbery the motive probably, and then +he was startled and left the money--it was all lying about on the grass. +But then Carfax was mixed up with so many ruffians of one kind and +another. It may have been revenge or any-thing. I believe they are +searching the wood now, but they're not likely to bring it home to +any one. Misty day, no one about, and the man simply used his fist +apparently--he must have been most awfully strong. Have you ever heard +of any one killing a man with one blow--except a prize-fighter?" + +"It's simply a knack, I believe, if you catch a fellow in a certain +spot." + +Supposing that some wretched tramp were arrested and accused? Some dirty +fellow from behind a hedge? All the tramps, all the ruffians of the +world were now a danger. The accusation of another would bring the truth +from him of course. His dark eyes moved across the room to Craven's +white, tired face. Within himself there moved now with every hour +stirring more acutely this desire for life. If only they would let him +alone . . . let the body alone . . . let it all alone. Let the world +sink back to its earlier apathy. + +His voice was resentful. + +"Carfax wasn't a good fellow, Craven. No, I know--_Nil nini bonum_ . . . +and all the rest of it. But it looks a bit like a judgment--judgment +from Heaven." + +Craven broke in. + +"But now--just now when his body's lying there. I know there were things +he did. He was a bit wild, of course----" + +"Yes, there was a girl, a girl in Midgett's tobacconist's shop--his +daughter. Carfax ruined her, body and soul . . . ruined her. He boasted +of it. Looks like a judgment." + +"I don't care." Craven sprang up. "Carfax may have done things, but he +was a friend of mine, and a good friend. They _must_ catch the man, they +_must_. It's a duty they owe us all. To have such a man as that hanging +about. Why, it might happen to any of us. You must help me, Dune." + +"Help you?" + +"Yes--help them to catch the murderer. We must think of everything that +could make a clue. Perhaps this girl. I _had_ heard something about her, +of course; but perhaps there was another lover, a rival or something, or +perhaps her father----" + +"Well," Dune said slowly, "my advice to you, Craven, is not to think too +much about the whole business. A thing like that is certain to get on +one's nerves--leave it alone as much as you can----" + +"What a funny chap you are! You're always like that. As detached from +everything as though you weren't alive at all. Why, I believe, if you'd +committed the murder yourself you wouldn't be much more concerned!" + +"Well, we've got to go on as we're made, I suppose, only _do_ take my +advice about not getting morbid over it. By the way, I see I'm playing +against St. Martin's this afternoon." + +"Yes. I thought at first I wouldn't play. But I suppose it's better to +go on doing one's ordinary things. You're coming in to-night, aren't +you? + +"Are you sure you want me after all this disturbance? + +"Why, of course; my mother's expecting you. Half-past seven. Don't +dress." He raised his arms above his head, yawning. He was obviously +better for the talk. His eyes were less strained, his body more alert. +"I'm tired to death. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night--saw poor +Carfax in the dark--ugh! Well, we meet this afternoon." + +When the door closed Olva had the sensation of having been on his trial. +Craven's eyes still followed him. Nerves, of course . . . but they had +strangely reminded him of Bunker. + + +3 + +Olva had never been to Craven's house before. It stood in a little +street that joined Cambridge to the country. At one end of the prim +little road the lamps stopped abruptly and a white chalk path ran +amongst dark common to a distant wood. + +At the other end a broader road with tram-lines crossed. The house was +built by itself, back from the highway, with a tiny drive and some dark +laurels. It was always gloomy and apparently unkept. The autumn leaves +were dull and sodden upon the drive; the bell and knocker upon the heavy +door, from which the paint was worn in places, were rusty. No sound came +from the little road beyond. + +The place seemed absolutely without life. Olva now, as he sent the +bell pealing through the passages, knew that this dark desertion had an +effect upon his nerves. A week ago he would not have noticed the place +at all--now he longed for lights and noise and company. He had played +foot-ball that afternoon better than ever before; that, too, had been a +defence, almost a protest, an assertion of his right to live. + +As he waited his thoughts pursued him. He had heard them say to-night +that no clue had been discovered, that the police were entirely at +a loss. It was impossible to trace foot-marks amongst all that +undergrowth. No one had been seen in that direction during the hours +when the murder must have been committed . . . so on--so on . . . all +this talk, this discussion. The wretched man was dead--no one would miss +him--no one cared--leave him alone, leave him alone. Olva pulled the +bell again furiously. Why couldn't they come? He wanted to escape from +this dark and dismal drive; these hanging laurels, the cold little +road, with its chilly lamps. An old and tottering woman, her nose nearly +touching her chin and her fingers in black mittens, opened at last and +led Olva into the very blackest and closest little hall that he had ever +encountered. The air was thick and musty with a strangely mingled smell +of burning wood, of faded pot-pourri, of dried skins. The ceiling was +low and black, and the only window was one of a dull red glass that +glimmered mournfully at a distance. The walls were hung with the +strangest things, prizes apparently that the late Dr. Craven had +secured in China--grinning heathen gods, uncouth weapons, dried skins of +animals. Out of this dark little hall Olva was led into a drawing-room +that was itself nearly as obscure. Here the ceiling was higher, but the +place square and dark; a deep set stone fireplace in which logs were +burning was the most obvious thing there. For the rest the floor seemed +littered with old twisted tables, odd chairs with carved legs, here a +plate with sea shells, here a glass case with some pieces of ribbon, +old rusty coins, silver ornaments. There were many old prints upon the +walls, landscapes, some portraits, and stuck here and there elaborate +arrangements of silk and ribbon and paper fans and coloured patterns. +Opposite the dark diamond-paned window was an old gilt mirror that +seemed to catch all the room into its dusty and faded reflections, and +to make what was old and tattered enough already, doubly dreary. The +room had the close and musty air of the hall as though windows were but +seldom opened; there was a scent as though oranges had recently been +eaten there. + +At first Olva had thought that he was alone in the room; then when +his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light he saw, sitting in a +high-backed chair, motionless, gazing into the fire, with her fine white +hands lying in her lap, a lady. She reminded him, in that first vision +of her, of "Phiz's" pictures of Mrs. Clennam in _Little Dorrit_, and +always afterwards that connection remained with him. Her thin, spare +figure had something intense, almost burning, in its immobility, in the +deep black of her dress and hair, in the white sharpness of the outline +of her face. + +How admirably, it seemed to him, she suited that room. She too may +have thought as she turned slowly to look at him that he fitted his +background, with the spare dignity of his figure, his fine eyes, the +black and white contrast of his body so that his cheeks, his hands, +seemed almost to shine against the faded air. It is certain that they +recognized at once some common ground so that they met as though they +had known one another for many years. The old minor caught for a moment +the fine gravity and silence of his approach to her as he waited for her +to greet him. + +But before she could speak to him the door had opened and Margaret +Craven entered. In her gravity, her silence, she seemed at once to claim +kinship with them both. She had the black hair, the pale face, the sharp +outline of her mother. As she came quietly towards them her reserve was +wonderful, but there was tenderness in the soft colour of her eyes, +in the lines of her mouth that made her also beautiful. But beyond the +tenderness there was also an energy that made every move seem like an +attack. In spite of her reserve there was impatience, and Olva's first +judgment of her was that the last thing in the world that she could +endure was muddle; she shone with the clean-cut decision of fine steel. + +Mrs. Craven spoke without rising from her chair. + +"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Dune, Rupert has often told us about +you." + +Margaret advanced to him and held out her hand. She looked him straight +in the eyes. + +"We have met before, you know." + +"I had not forgotten," he answered her gravely. + +Then Rupert came in. It was strange how one saw now, when he stood +beside his mother and sister, that he had some of their quality of stern +reserve. He had always seemed to Olva a perfectly ordinary person of +natural good health and good temper, and now this quality that had +descended upon him increased the fresh attention that he had already +during these last two days demanded. For something beyond question the +Carfax affair must be held responsible. It seemed now to be the only +thing that could hold his mind. He spoke very little, but his white +face, his tired eyes, his listless conversation, showed the occupation +of his mind. It was indeed a melancholy evening. + +To Olva, his nerves being already on edge, it was almost intolerable. +They passed from the drawing-room into a tiny dining-room--a room that +was as dingy and faded as the rest, with a dull red paper on the walls +and an old blue carpet. The old woman waited; the food was of the +simplest. + +Mrs. Craven scarcely spoke at all. She sat with her eyes gravely fixed +in front of her, save when she raised them to flash them for an instant +at Olva. He found this sudden gaze extraordinarily disconcerting; it was +as though she were reasserting her claim to some common understanding +that existed between them, to some secret that belonged to them alone. + +They avoided, for the most part, Carfax's death. Once Margaret Craven +said: "One of the most astonishing things about anything of this kind +seems to me the bravery of the murderer--the bravery I mean that is +demanded of any one during the days between the crime and his arrest. +To be in possession of that tremendous secret, to be at war, as it +were, with the world, and yet to lead, in all probability, an ordinary +life--that demands courage." + +"One may accustom oneself to anything," Mrs. Craven said. Her voice was +deep and musical, and her words seemed to linger almost like an echo in +the air. + +Olva thought as he looked at Margaret Craven that there was a strength +there that could face anything; it was more than courage; it might, +under certain circumstances, become fanaticism. But he knew that whereas +Mrs. Craven stirred in him a deep restlessness and disquiet, Margaret +Craven quieted and soothed him, almost, it seemed, deliberately, as +though she knew that he was in trouble. + +He said: "I should think that his worst enemy, if he have any +imagination at all, must be his loneliness. I can conceive that the +burden of the secret, even though there be no chance whatever of +discovery, must make that loneliness intolerable." + +Here Rupert Craven interrupted as though he were longing to break away +from the subject. + +"You played the finest game of your life this afternoon, Dune. I +never saw anything like that last try of yours. Whymper was on the +touch-line--I saw him. The 'Varsity's certain to try you again on +Saturday." + +"I've been slack too long," Olva said, laughing. "I never enjoyed +anything more than this afternoon." + +"I played the most miserable game I've ever played--couldn't get this +beastly thing out of my head." + +Olva felt as though he were almost at the end of his endurance. At that +moment he thought that he would have preferred them to burst the doors +and arrest him. He had never known such fatigue. If he could sleep he +did not care what happened to him. + +The rest of the evening seemed a dream. The dark, crowded drawing-room +flickered in the light from the crackling fire. Mrs. Craven, in her +stiff chair, never moving her eyes, flung shadows on the walls. Some +curtain blew drearily, with little secret taps, against the door. Rupert +Craven sat moodily in a dark corner. + +At Olva's request Margaret Craven played. The piano was old and needed +attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing. First +she gave him some modern things--some Debussy, _Les Miroires_ of Ravel, +some of the Russian ballet music of _Cleopatre_. These she flung at him, +fiercely, aggressively, playing them as though she would wring cries of +protest from the very notes. + +"There," she cried when she had finished, flashing a look that was +almost indignant at him. "There is your modern stuff--I can give you +more of it." + +"I would like something better now," he said gravely. + +Without a word that mood left her. In the dim candle-light her eyes +were tender again. Very softly she played the first two movements of the +"Moonlight" sonata. + +"I am not in the mood for the last movement," she said, and closed the +piano. Still about the old silver, the dark walls, the log fire, the old +gilt mirror, the sweet, delicate notes lingered. + +Soon afterwards he left them. As he passed down the chill, deserted +street, abandoning the dark laurelled garden, he saw behind him the +stern shadow of Mrs. Craven black upon the wall. + +But the loneliness, the unrest, walked behind him. Silence was beginning +to be terrible. God--this God--this Unknown God--pursued him. Only a +little comfort out of the very heart of that great pursuing shadow came +to him--Margaret Craven's grave and tender eyes. + + + +CHAPTER V + +STONE ALTARS + +1 + +Carfax was buried. There had been an inquest; certain tramps and +wanderers had been arrested, examined and dismissed. No discovery had +been made, and a verdict of Wilful "Wilful murder against some person or +persons unknown" had been returned. It was generally felt that Carfax's +life had not been of the most savoury and that there were, in all +probability, amongst the back streets of Cambridge several persons who +had owed him a grudge. He appeared, indeed, in the discoveries that were +now made on every side, to be something better dead than alive. A stout +and somnolent gentleman, with red cheeks and eyes half closed, was the +only mourner from the outside world at the funeral. This, it appeared, +was an uncle. Father dead, mother divorced and leading a pleasant +existence amongst the capitals of Europe. The uncle, although +maintaining a decent appearance of grief, was obviously, at heart, +relieved to be rid of his nephew so easily. Poor Carfax! For so rubicund +and noisy a person he left strangely little mark upon the world. Within +a fortnight the college had nearly lost account of his existence. He +lent to Sannet Wood a sinister air that caused numberless undergraduates +to cycle out in that direction. Now and again, when conversation +flagged, some one revived the subject. But it was a horse that needed +much whipping to make it go. It had kicked with its violent hoof upon +the soft walls of Cambridge life. For a moment it had seemed that it +would force its way, but the impression had been of the slightest. + +Even within the gates and courts of Saul's itself the impression that +Carfax had left faded with surprising swiftness into a melodramatic +memory. But nothing could have been more remarkable than the resolute +determination of these young men to push grim facts away. They were +not made--one could hear it so eloquently explained--for that kind of +tragedy. The autumn air, the furious exercise, the hissing kettles, the +decent and amiable discussions on Life reduced to the importance of a +Greek Accent--these things rejected violently the absurdity of Tragic +Crudity. + +They were quite right, these young men. They paid their shining pounds +for the capture--conscious or not as it might be--of an atmosphere, a +delicate and gentle setting to the crudity of their later life. Carfax, +when alive, had blundered into coarse disaster but had blundered in back +streets. Now the manner of his death painted him in shrieking colours. +The harmony was disturbed, therefore he must go. + +Of more importance to this world of Saul's was the strange revival--as +though from the dead--of Olva Dune. They had been prepared, many of +them, for some odd development, but this perfectly normal, healthy +interest in the affairs of the College was the last thing that his +grave, romantic air could ever have led any one to expect. His football +in the first place opened wide avenues of speculation. First there had +been the College game, then there had been the University match against +the Harlequins, and it was, admittedly, a very long time since any +one had seen anything like it. He had seemed, in that game against the +Harlequins, to possess every virtue that should belong to the ideal +three-quarter--pace, swerve, tackle, and through them all the steady +working of the brain. Nevertheless those earlier games were yet +remembered against him, and it was confidently said that this +brilliance, with a man of Dune's temperament, could not possibly last. +But, nevertheless, the expectation of his success brought him up, with +precipitation, against the personality of Cardillac, and it was this +implied rivalry that agitated the College. It is only in one's second +year that a matter of this kind can assume world-shaking importance. +The First-year Undergraduate is too near the child, the Third-year +Undergraduate too near the man. For the First-year man School, for the +Third-year man the World looms too heavily. So it is from the men of +the Second year that the leaders are to be selected, and at this time in +Saul's Cardillac seemed to have no rival. He combined, to an admirable +degree, the man of the world and the sportsman; he had an air that was +beyond rubies. He was elegant without being effeminate, arrogant without +being conceited, indifferent without being blase. He had learnt, at +Eton, and at the knee of a rich and charming mother, that to be crude +was the unforgivable sin. He worshipped the god of good manners and +would have made an admirable son of the great Lord Chesterfield. Finally +he was the only man in Saul's who had any "air" at all, and he had +already travelled round the world and been introduced by his mother to +Royalty at Marienbad. + +The only man who could ever have claimed any possible rivalry was Dune, +and Dune had seemed determined, until now, to avoid any-thing of +the kind. Suddenly the situation leapt upon the startled eyes of the +attentive world. Possibility of excitement. . . . + + +2 + +Olva, himself, was entirely unconcerned by this threatened rivalry. He +was being driven, by impulses that he understood only too well, into the +noisiest life that he could manage to find about him. The more noise the +better; he had only a cold fear at his heart that, after all, it would +penetrate his dreaded loneliness too little, let it be as loud a noise +as he could possibly summon. + +He had not now--and this was the more terrible--any consciousness of +Carfax at all; there was waiting for him, lurking, beast-like, until its +inevitable moment, something far more terrible. + +Meanwhile he made encounters. . . . There was Bunning. The Historical +Society in Saul's was held together by the Senior Tutor. This gentleman, +a Mr. Gregg, was thin, cadaverous, blue-chinned, mildly insincere. It +was his view of University life that undergraduates were born yesterday +and would believe anything that you told them. In spite, however, of +their tender years there was a lurking ferocity that must be checked by +an indulgent heartiness of manner, as one might offer a nut to a monkey. +His invariable manner of salutation--"_Come_ along, Simter--the very man +I wanted to see"--lost its attraction through much repetition, and the +hearty assumption on the amiable gentleman's part that "we are all +boys together" froze many undergraduates into a chill and indifferent +silence. He had not taken Holy Orders, but he gave, nevertheless, the +effect of adopting the language of the World, the Flesh and the Devil in +order that he might the better spy out the land. He attracted, finally, +to himself certain timid souls who preferred insincere comfort to none +at all, but he was hotly rejected by more able-bodied persons. + +Nevertheless the Historical Society prospered, and Olva one evening, +driven he knew not by what impulse, attended its meeting. When he +entered Mr. Gregg's room some dozen men were already seated there. The +walls were hung with groups in which a younger and even thinner Mr. +Gregg was displayed, a curious figure in "shorts." On one side of the +room two oars were hung and over the mantelpiece (littered with pipes) +there were photographs of the "Mona Lisa" and Da Vinci's "Last Supper." +The men in the room were embarrassed and silent. Under a strong light a +minute undergraduate with enormous spectacles sat, white and trembling; +it was obviously he who was to read the paper. + +Mr. Gregg came forward heartily. "Why, Dune, this is quite splendid! The +very man! Why, it is long since you've honoured our humble gathering. +Baccy? That's right. Help yourself. Erdington's going to read to us +about the Huns and stand a fire of questions afterwards, aren't you, +Erdington?" + +The youth in spectacles gulped. + +"_That's_ right. _That's_ right. Comfortable now, Dune? Got all you +want? _That's_ right. Now we can begin, I think. Minutes of the last +meeting, Stevens." + +Olva placed himself in a corner and looked round the room. He found that +most of the men were freshmen whose faces he did not know, but there, +moving his fat body uneasily on a chair, was Bunning, and there, to his +intense surprise, was Lawrence. That football hero was lounging with +half-closed eyes in a large armchair. His broad back looked as though +it would burst the wooden arms, and his plain, good-natured face beamed, +through a cloud of smoke, upon the company. Below his short, light +grey flannel trousers were bright purple socks. He had the body of a +bullock--short, thick, broad, strong, thoroughly well calculated to +withstand the rushes of oncoming three-quarters. Various freshmen flung +timid glances at the hero every now and again; it was to them an event +that they might have, for a whole hour, closely under their observation, +this king among men. + +Olva wondered at his presence. He remembered that Lawrence was taking +a "pass" degree in History. He knew also that Lawrence somewhere in the +depths of his slow brain had a thirst for knowledge and at the same time +a certain assurance that he would never acquire any. His slow voice, his +slow smile, the great, heavy back, the short thick legs attracted Olva; +there was something simple and primeval here that appealed to the Dune +blood. Moreover, since the afternoon when Olva had played against +the Harlequins and covered himself with glory, Lawrence had shown a +disposition to make friends. Old Lawrence might be stupid, but, as a +background, he was the most important man in the College. His slow, +lumbering body as it rolled along the Court was followed by the eyes of +countless freshmen. His appearance on the occasion of a College concert +was the signal for an orgy of applause. Cardillac might lead the +College, but he was, nevertheless, of common clay. Lawrence was of the +gods! + +Swift contrast the fat and shapeless Bunning! As the tremulous and +almost tearful voice of little Erdington continued the solemn and dreary +exposition of the Huns, Olva felt increasingly that Bunning's eye was +upon him. Olva had not seen the creature since the night of the revival, +and he was irritated with himself for the persistence of his interest. +The man's pluck had, in the first place, struck him, but now it seemed +to him that they were, in some undefinable measure, linked together. As +Olva watched him, half contemptuously, half sarcastically, he tried +to pin his brain down to the actual, definite connection. It seemed +ultimately to hang round that dreadful evening when they had been +together; it was almost---although this was absurd--as though Bunning +knew; but, in spite of the certain assurance of his ignorance Olva +felt as he moved uneasily under Bunning's gaze that the man himself was +making some claim upon him. It was evident that Bunning was unhappy; +he looked as though he had not slept; his face was white and puffy, his +eyes dark and heavy. He was paying no attention to the "Huns," but was +trying, obviously, to catch Olva's eye. As the reading progressed Olva +became more and more uneasy. It showed the things that must be happening +to his nerves. He had now that sensation that had often come to him +lately that some one was waiting for him outside the door. He imagined +that the man next to him, a spotty, thin and restless freshman, would +suddenly turn to him and say quite casually--"By the way, you killed +Carfax, didn't you?" Above all he imagined himself suddenly rising in +his place and saying---"Yes, gentlemen, this is all very well, very +interesting I'm sure, but I killed Carfax." + +His tortured brain was being driven, compelled to these utterances. +Behind him still he felt that pursuing cloud; one day it would catch him +and, out of the heart of it, there would leap . . . + +And all this because Bunning looked at him. It was becoming now a +habit--so general that it was instinctive--that, almost unconsciously, +he should, at a point like this, pull at his nerves. "They are watching +you; they are watching you. Don't let them see you like this; pull +yourself together. . . ." + +He did. Little Erdington's voice ceased. Mr. Gregg was heard saying: +"It has always occurred to me that the Huns . . . " and then, after many +speeches: "How does this point of view strike you, Erdington?" + +It didn't strike Erdington very strongly, and there was no other person +present who seemed to be struck in any very especial direction. The +discussion, therefore, quickly flagged. Olva escaped Bunning's pleading +eyes, found his gown amongst a heap in the corner, and avoiding Mr. +Gregg's pressing invitation to stay, plunged down the stairs. Behind +him, then, making his heart leap into his mouth, was a slow, thick +voice. + +"I say, Dune, what do you say to a little drink in my room after +all that muck?" Above him, in the dark shadow of the stair, loomed +Lawrence's thick body. + +"I shall be delighted," Olva said. + +Lawrence came lumbering down. He always spoke as though words were a +difficulty to him. He left out any word that was not of vital necessity. + +"Muck that-awful muck. What do they want gettin' a piffler like that kid +in the glasses to read his ideas? Ain't got any--not one--no more 'an I +have." + +They reached the Court--it swam softly in the moonlight--stars burnt, +here and there, in a trembling sky. + +Lawrence put his great arm through Olva's. "Rippin' game that o' yours +yesterday. Rippin'." He seemed to lick his lips over it as a gourmet +over a delicate dish. + +Lawrence pursued his slow thoughts. + +"I say, you know, you--re one of these clever ones--thinkin' an' writin' +an' all that--an' _yet_ you play footer like an archangel--a blarsted +archangel. Lucky devil!" He sighed heavily. "Every time I put on my +footer boots," he pursued, "I say to myself, 'What you'd be givin', +Jerry Lawrence, if you could just go and write a book! What you'd give! +But it ain't likely--my spellin's somethin' shockin'." + +Here there was interruption. Several men came rattling; laughing and +shouting, down the staircase behind Lawrence and Olva. + +"Oh, damn!" said Lawrence, slowly turning round upon them. Cardillac was +there, also Bobby Galleon, Rupert Craven, and one or two more. + +Cardillac shouted. "Hul_lo_, Lawrence, old man. Is it true, as they say, +that you've been sitting at the feet of our dearly beloved Gregg? How +splendid for you!" + +"I've been at our Historical Society hearin' about the Huns, and +therefore there's compellin' necessity for a drink," Lawrence said, +moving in the direction of his room. + +"Oh! rot, don't go in yet. We're thinking of going round and paying +Bunning a visit in another ten minutes. He's going to have a whole lot +of men in for a prayer-meeting. Thompson's just brought word." + +Thompson, a wretched creature in the Second Year, who had, during his +first term, been of the pious persuasion and had since turned traitor, +offered an eager assurance. + +The news obviously tempted Lawrence. He moved his body slowly round. + +"Well," he said slowly, then he turned to Olva. "You'll come?" he said. + +"No, thanks," said Olva shortly. "Bunning's been ragged about enough. +There's nothing the matter with the man." + +Cardillac's voice was amused. "Well, Dune, I daresay we can get on +without you," he said. + +Lawrence said slowly, "Well, I don't know. P'raps it's mean on the man. +I want a drink. I don't think I'm havin' any to-night, Cards." + +Cardillac was sharper. "Oh, nonsense, Lawrence, come along. It doesn't +do the man any harm." + +"It frightens the fellow out of his wits," said Dune sharply. "You +wouldn't like it yourself if you had a dozen fellows tumbling down upon +your rooms and chucking your things out of the window." + +Rupert Craven said: "Well, I'm off anyhow. Work for me." He vanished +into the shadow. + +Lawrence nodded. "Good-bye, Cards, old man. Go and play your old bridge +or something--leave the wretched Bunnin' to his prayers." + +Lawrence and Olva moved away. + + +3 + +The first thing that Lawrence said when they were lounging comfortably +in his worn but friendly chairs hit Olva, expecting peace here at any +rate, like a blow. + +"Fellers have forgotten Carfax damn quick." + +In that good-natured face there was no suspicion, but Olva seemed to see +there a curiosity, even an excitement. + +"Yes," he said, "they have." + +"Fellers," said Lawrence again, "aren't clever in this College. They get +their firsts in Science--little measly pups from Board Schools who don't +clean their teeth--and there are one or two men who can row a bit and +play footer a bit and play cricket a bit--I grant you all that--but +they _aren't_ clever--not what I call clever." + +Olva waited for the development of Lawrence's brain. + +"Now at St. Martin's they'll talk. They'll sit round a fire the whole +blessed evenin' talkin'--about whether there's a God or isn't a God, +about whether they're there or aren't there, about whether women are +rotten or not, about jolly old Greece and jolly old Rome--_I_ know. +That's the sort o' stuff you could go in for--damn interestin'. I'd like +to listen to a bit of it, although they'd laugh if they heard me say so, +but what I'm gettin' at is that there ain't any clever fellers in this +old bundle o' bricks, and Carfax's death proves it." + +"How does it prove it?" asked Dune. + +"Why, don't you see, they'd have made more of Carfax. Nobody said a +blessed thing that any one mightn't have said." + +Lawrence thought heavily for a moment or two, and then he brought out-- + +"Carfax was a stinker--a rotten fellow. That's granted, but there was +more in it than just Carfax. Why, any one could give him a knock on the +chin any day and there's no loss, but to have a feller killed in Sannet +Wood where all those old Druids---" + +As the words came from him Lawrence stopped. + +"Druids?" said Olva. + +"Why, yes. I wish I were a clever feller an' I could say what I mean, +but if I'd been a man with a bit of grey matter that's what I'd have +gone in for--those old stones, those old fellers who used to slash your +throat to please their God. My soul, there's stuff there. _They_ knew +what fighting _was--they'd_ have played footer with you. Ever since I +was a tiny kid they've excited me, and if I'd been a brainy feller I'd +have known a lot more, but the minute I start reactin' about them I +get heavy, can't keep my eyes to it. But I've walked miles--often and +often--to see a stone or a hill, don't yer know, and Sannet Wood's one +o' the best. So, says I, when I hear about young Carfax bein' done +for right there at the very place, I says to myself, 'You may look and +look--hold your old inquests--collar your likely feller--but it wasn't a +man that did it, and you'll have to go further than human beings if you +fix on the culprit.'" + +This was, in all probability, the longest speech that Lawrence had ever +made in his life. He himself seemed to think so, for he added in short +jerks: "It was those old Druids--got sick--o' the sight--o' Carfax's +dirty body--bangin' about in their preserves--an' they gave him a chuck +under the chin," and after that there was silence. + +To Olva the effect of this was uncanny. He played, it seemed, a +spiritual Blind Man's Buff. On every side of him things filled the air; +once and again he would touch them, sometimes he would fancy that he was +alone, clear, isolated, when suddenly something again would blunder up +against him. And always with him, driving him into the bustle of his +fellow men, flinging him, hurling him from one noise to another noise, +was the terror of silence. Let him once be alone, once waiting in +suspense, and he would hear. . . . What would he hear? + +He felt a sudden impulse to speak. + +"Do you know, Lawrence, in a kind of way I feel with you. I mean +this--that if--I had, at any time, committed a murder or were indeed +burdened by any tremendous breaking of a law, I believe it would be the +consciousness of the Maker of the law that would pursue me. It sounds +priggish, but I don't mean man. The laws that man has made +nothing--subject to any temporary civilization, mere fences put up for a +moment to keep the cattle in their proper fields. But the laws that God +made--if you break one . . ." + +Lawrence tuned heavily in his chair. + +"Then you believe in God?" + +"Yes, I believe in God." + +After that there was silence. Both men felt uncomfortable. Led by some +sudden, ungovernable impulse, they had both gone further than their +slight acquaintance justified. Olva was convinced that he had made a +fool of himself, that he had talked like a prig. Lawrence was groping +hopelessly amongst a forest of dark thought for some little sensible +thing that he might say. He found nothing and so relapsed, with false, +uncomfortable easiness, into-- + +"I say, old man, have a drink." + +The rest of that conversation concerned football. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE WATCHERS + +1 + +He was running--running for his life. Behind stretched the long white +road rising like a great bloated, warning finger out of the misty trees. +Heavy cushions of grey cloud blotched the sky; through the mist ridges +of ploughed field rose like bars. + +The dog, Bunker, was running beside him, his tongue out, body solid grey +against the lighter, floating grey around. His feet pattered beside his +master, but his body appeared to edge away and yet to be held by some +compelling force. + +Olva was running, running. But not from Carfax. There in the wood it +lay, the leg doubled under the body, the head hanging limply back. . . . +But that was nought, no fear, no terror in that. It could not pursue, +nor in its clumsy following, had it had such power, would there have +been any horror. There was no sound in the world save his running and +the patter of the dog's feet. Would the lights never come, those sullen +streets and at last the grateful, welcome crowds? + +He could see one lamp, far ahead of him, flinging its light forward to +help him. If he might only reach it before the pursuer caught him. Then, +behind him, oh! so softly, so gently, with a dreadful certainty, it +came. If he did but once look round, once behold that Shadow, his defeat +was sure. He would sink down there upon the road, the mists would crowd +upon him, and then the awful end. He began to call out, his breath came +in staggering gasps, his feet faltered. + +"O, mercy, mercy--have mercy." He sank trembling to his knees. + +"Dune, Dune, wake up! What's the matter? You've been making the most +awful shindy. Dune, Dune!" + +Slowly he came to himself. As his eyes caught the old familiar objects, +the little diamond-paned window, the books, the smiling tenderness +of "Aegidius," the last evening blaze lighting the room with golden +splendour, he pulled himself together. + +He had been sitting, he remembered now, in the armchair by the fire. +Craven had come to tea. They had had their meal, had talked pleasantly +enough, and then Olva had felt this overpowering desire for sleep come +down upon him. He knew the sensation of it well enough by now, for his +nights had often been crowded with waking hours, and this drowsiness +would attack him at any time--in hall, in chapel, in lecture. Sometimes +he had struggled against it, but to-day it had been too strong for him. +Craven's voice had grown fainter and fainter, the room had filled +with mist. He had made one desperate struggle, had seen through his +hall-closed eyes that Craven was looking at a magazine and blowing, +lazily, clouds of smoke from his pipe . . . then he had known no more. + +Now, as he struggled to himself, he saw that Craven was standing over +him, shaking him by the arm. + +"Hullo," he said stupidly, "I'm afraid I must have dropped off. I'm +afraid you must have thought me most frightfully rude." + +Craven left him and went back to his chair. + +"No," he said, "that's all right--only you _did_ talk in the most +extraordinary way." + +"Did I?" Olva looked at him gravely. "What did I say?" + +"Oh--I don't know--only you shouted a lot. You're overdone, aren't you? +Been working too hard I expect." Then he added, slowly, "You were crying +out about Carfax." + +There was a long pause. The clock ticked, the light slowly faded, +leaving the room in shadow. Craven's voice was uncomfortable. He said at +last-- + +"You must have been thinking a lot about Carfax lately." + +"What did I say?" asked Olva again. + +"Oh, nothing." Craven turned his eyes away to the shadowy panes. "You +were dreaming about a road--and something about a wood . . . and a +matchbox." + +"I've been sleeping badly." Olva got up, filled his pipe and relit it. +"I expect, although we don't say much about it, the Carfax business has +got on all our nerves. You don't look yourself, Craven." + +He didn't. His careless, happy look had left him. Increasingly, every +day, Olva seemed to see in him a likeness to his mother and sister. The +eyes now were darker, the tines of the mouth were harder. + +Meanwhile so strong bad the dream's impression been that Olva could not +yet disentangle it from his waking thoughts. He was in his room and yet +the white road stretched out of it--somewhere there by the +bookcase--oil through the mist into the heart of the dark wood. + +He had welcomed during these last days Craven's advances towards +friendship, partly because he wanted friends now, and partly, he was +beginning now to recognize, there was, in the back of his mind, the +lingering memory of the kind eyes of Margaret Craven. He perceived, too, +that here was sign enough of change in him--that he who had, from +his earliest days, held himself proudly, sternly aloof from all human +companionship save that of his father, should now, so readily and +eagerly, greet it. Craven had been proud of him, eager to be with him, +and had shown, in his artless opinions of men and things, the simplest, +most innocent of characters. + +"Time to light up," said Olva. The room had grown very dark. + +"I must be going." + +Olva noticed at once that there was a new note in Craven's voice. The +boy moved, restlessly, about the room. + +"I say," he brought out at last, laughing nervously, "don't go asleep +when I'm in the room again. It gives one fits." + +Both men were conscious of some subtle, vague impression moving in the +darkness between them. + +Olva answered gravely, "I've been sticking in at an old paper I've been +working on--no use to anybody, and I've been neglecting my proper work +for it, but it's absorbed me. That's what's given me such bad nights, I +expect." + +"I shouldn't have thought," Craven answered slowly, "that anything ever +upset you; I shouldn't have thought you had any nerves. And, in any +case, I didn't know you had thought twice about the Carfax business." + +Olva turned on the electric light. At the same moment there was a loud +knock on the door. + +Craven opened it, showing in the doorway a pale and flustered Bunning. +Craven looked at him with a surprised stare, and then, calling out +good-bye to Olva, walked off. + +Bunning stood hesitating, his great spectacles shining owl-like in the +light. + +Dune didn't want him. He was, he reflected as he looked at him, the +very last person whom he did want. And then Bunning had most irritating +habits. There was that trick of his of pushing up his spectacles +nervously higher on to his nose. He bad a silly shrill laugh, and he +had that lack of tact that made him, when you had given him a shilling's +worth of conversation and confidence, suppose that you had given him +half-a-crown's worth and expect that you would very shortly give him +five shillings' worth. He presumed on nothing at all, was confidential +when he ought to have been silent, and gushing when he should simply +have thanked you with a smile. Nothing, moreover, to look at. He had the +kind of complexion that looks as though it would break into spots at the +earliest opportunity. His clothes fitted him badly and were dusty at the +knees; his hair was of no colour nor strength whatever, and he bit his +nails. His eyes behind his spectacles were watery and restless, and +his linen always looked as though it had been quite clean yesterday and +would be quite filthy to-morrow. + +And yet Olva, as he looked at him seated awkwardly in a chair, was +surprisingly, unexpectedly touched. The creature was so obviously +sincere. It was indeed poor Bunning's only possible "leg," his ardour. +He would willingly go to the stake for anything. It was the actual death +and sacrifice that mattered---and Bunning's life was spent in marching, +magnificently and wholeheartedly, to the sacrificial altars and then +discovering that he had simply been asked to tea. + +Now it was evident that he wanted something from Olva. His tremulous +eyes bad, as they gazed at Dune across the room, the dumb worship of a +dog adoring its master. + +"I hear," he said in that husky voice that always sounded as though +he were just swallowing the last crumbs of a piece of toast, "that you +stopped Cardillac and the others coming round to my rooms the other +night. I can't tell you how I feel about it." + +"Rot," said Olva brusquely. "If you were less of an ass they wouldn't +want to come round to your rooms so often." + +"I know," said Bunning. "I am an awful ass." He pushed his spectacles up +his nose. "Why did you stop them coming?" he asked. + +"Simply," said Olva, "because it seems to me that ten men on to one is a +rotten poor game." + +"I don't know," said Bunning, still very husky, "If a man's a fool he +gets rotted. That's natural enough. I've always been rotted all my life. +I used to think it was because people didn't understand me--now I know +that it really is because I am an ass." + +Strangely, suddenly, some of the burden that bad been upon Olva now for +so long was lifted. The atmosphere of the room that had lain upon him +so heavily was lighter--and he seemed to feel the gentle withdrawing of +that pursuit that now, ever, night and day, sounded in his ears. + +And what, above all, had happened to him? He flung his mind back to a +month ago. With what scorn then would he have glanced at Bunning's ugly +body--with what impatience have listened to his pitiful confessions. Now +he said gently-- + +"Tell me about yourself." + +Bunning gulped and gripped the baggy knees of his trousers. + +"I'm very unhappy," he said at last desperately--"very. And if you +hadn't come with me the other night to hear Med-Tetloe--I'm sure I +don't know why you did--I shouldn't have come now---" + +"Well, what's the matter?" + +Bunning's mouth was full of toast. "It was that night--that service. I +was very worked up and I went round afterwards to speak to him. I could +see, you know, that it hadn't touched you at all. I could see that, and +then when I went round to see him he hadn't got anything to say--nothing +that I wanted--and--suddenly--then--at that moment--I felt it was all +no good. It was you, you made me feel like that---" + +"I?" + +"Yes. If you hadn't gone--like that--it would have been different. But +when you--the last man in College to care about it-went and gave it its +chance I thought that would prove it. And then when I went to him he was +so silly, Med-Tetloe I mean. Oh! I can't describe it but it was just no +use and I began to feel that it was all no good. I don't believe there +is a God at all--it's all been wrong--I don't know what to do. I don't +know where to go. I've been wretched for days, not sleeping or anything. +And then they come and rag me--and--and--the Union men want me to take +Cards round for a Prayer Meeting--and--and--I wouldn't, and they said. +. . . Oh! I don't know, I don't know _what_ to do--I haven't got +any-thing left!" + +And here, to Olva's intense dismay, the wretched creature burst into the +most passionate and desperate tears, putting his great hands over his +face, his whole body sobbing. It was desolation--the desolation of a +human being who had clutched desperately at hope after hope, who had +demanded urgently that he should be given something to live for and had +had all things snatched from his hands. + +Olva, knowing what his own loneliness was, and the terror of it, +understood. A fortnight ago he would have hated the scene, have sent +Bunning, with a cutting word, flying from the room, never to return. + +"I say, Bunning, you mustn't carry on like this--you're overdone or +something. Besides, I don't understand. What does it matter if you +_have_ grown to distrust Med-Tetloe and all that crowd. They aren't the +only people in the world--that isn't the only sort of religion." + +"It's all I had. I haven't got anything now. They don't want me at home. +They don't want me here. I'm not clever. I can't do anything. . . . And +now God's gone. . . . I think I'll drown myself." + +"Nonsense. You mustn't talk like that--God's never gone." + +Bunning dropped his hands, looked up, his face ridiculous with its +tear-stains. + +"You think there's a God?" + +"I know there's a God." + +"Oh!" Bunning sighed. + +"But you mustn't take it from me, you know. You must think it out for +yourself. Everybody has to." + +"Yes--but you matter--more to me than--any one." + +"I?" + +"Yes." Bunning looked at the floor and began to speak very fast. "You've +always seemed to me wonderful--so different from every one else. You +always looked--so wonderful. I've always been like that, wanted my hero, +and I haven't generally been able to speak to them--my heroes I mean. I +never thought, of course, that I should speak to you. And then they +sent me that day to you, and you came with me--it was so wonderful--I've +thought of nothing else since. I don't think God would matter if you'd +only let me come to see you sometimes and talk to you--like this." + +"Don't talk that sort of rot. Always glad to see you. Of course you may +come in and talk if you wish." + +"Oh! you're so different--from what I thought. You always looked as +though you despised everybody--and now you look--Oh! I don't know--but +I'm afraid of you---" + +The wretched Bunning was swiftly regaining confidence. He was now, of +course, about to plunge a great deal farther than was necessary and to +burden Olva with sell-revelations and the rest. + +Olva hurriedly broke in-- + +"Well, come and see me when you want to. I've got a lot of work to do +before Hall. But we'll go for a walk one day. . . ." + +Bunning was at once flung back on to his timid self. He pushed his +spectacles back, blushed, nearly tumbled over his chair as he got up, +and backed confusedly out of the room. + +He tried to say something at the door--"I can't thank you enough. . ." +he stuttered and was gone. + +As the door closed behind him, swiftly Olva was conscious again of the +Pursuit. . . . + +He turned to the empty room--"Leave me alone," he whispered. "For pity's +sake leave me alone." + +The silence that followed was filled with insistent, mysterious urgency. + + +2 + +Craven did not come that night to Hall. Galleon had asked him and Olva +to breakfast-the next morning. He did not appear. + +About two o'clock in the afternoon a note was sent round to Olva's +rooms. "I've been rather seedy. Just out for a long walk--do you mind my +taking Bunker? Send word round to my rooms if you mind.--R. C." Craven +had taken Bunker out for walks before and had grown fond of the dog. +There was nothing in that. But Olva, as he stood in the middle of his +room with the note in his hand, was frightened. + +The result of it was that about five o'clock on that afternoon Olva paid +his second visit to the dark house in Rocket Road. His motives for going +were confused, but he knew that at the back of them was a desire that he +should find Margaret Craven, with her grave eyes, waiting for him in the +musty little drawing-room, and that Mrs. Craven, that mysterious woman, +should not be there. The hall, when the old servant had admitted him, +once again seemed to enfold him in its darkness and heavy air with an +almost active purpose. It breathed with an actual sound, almost with +a melody . . . the "Valse Triste" of Sibelius, a favourite with Olva, +seemed to him now to be humming its thin spiral note amongst the skins +and Chinese weapons that covered the walls. The House seemed to come +forward, on this second occasion, actively, personally. . . . His wish +was gratified. Margaret Craven was alone in the dark, low-ceilinged +drawing-room, standing, in her black dress, before the great deep +fireplace, as though she had known that he would come and had been +awaiting his arrival. + +"I know that you will excuse my mother," she said in her grave, quiet +voice. "She is not very well. She will be sorry not to have seen you." +Her hand was cool and strong, and, as he held it for an instant, he was +strangely conscious that she, as well as the House, had moved into more +intimate relation with him since their last meeting. + +They sat down and talked quietly, their voices sounding like low notes +of music in the heavy room. He was conscious of rest in the repose of +her figure, the pale outline of her face, the even voice, and above +all the grave tenderness of her eyes. He was aware, too, that she was +demanding from him something of the same kind; he divined that for her, +too, life had been no easy thing since they last met and that she wanted +now a little relief before she must return. He tried to give it her. + +All through their conversation he was still conscious in the dim rustle +that any breeze made in the room of that thin melody that Sibelius once +heard. . . . + +"I hope that Mrs. Craven is not seriously ill? + +"No. It is one of her headaches. Her nerves are very easily upset. There +was a thunder-storm last night. . . . She has never been strong since +father died." + +"You will tell her how sorry I am." + +"Thank you. She is wonderfully brave about it. She never complains--she +suffers more than we know, I think. I don't think this house is good +for her. Father died here and her bedroom now is the room where he died. +That is not good for her, I'm sure. Rupert and I both are agreed +about it, but we cannot get her to change her mind. She can be very +determined." + +Yes--Olva, remembering her as she sat so sternly before the fire, knew +that she could be determined. + +"And I am afraid that your brother isn't very well either." + +She looked at him with troubled eyes. "I am distressed about Rupert. He +has taken this death of his friend so terribly to heart. I have never +known him morbid about anything before. It is really strange because I +don't think he was greatly attached to Mr. Carfax. There were things I +know that he didn't like." + +"Yes. He doesn't look the kind of fellow who would let his mind dwell on +things. He looks too healthy." + +"No. He came in to see us for an hour last night and sat there without a +word. I played to him--he seemed not to hear it. And generally he cares +for music." + +"I'm afraid"--their eyes met and Olva held hers until he had finished +his sentence--"I'm afraid that it must seem a little lonely and gloomy +for you here--in this house--after your years abroad." + +She looked away from him into the fire. + +"Yes," she said, speaking with sudden intensity. "I hate it. I have +hated it always--this house, Cambridge, the life we lead here. I love +my mother, but since I have been abroad something has happened to change +her. There is no confidence between us now. And it is lonely because she +speaks so little--I am afraid she is really very ill, but she refuses to +see a doctor. . . ." + +Then her voice was softer again, and she leant forward a little towards +him. "And I have told you this, Mr. Dune, because if you will you can +help me--all of us. Do you know that she liked you immensely the other +even big? I have never known her take to any one at once, so strongly. +She told me afterwards that you had done her more good than fifty +doctors--just your being there--so that if, sometimes, you could come +and see her----" + +He did not know what it was that suddenly, at her words, brought the +terror back to him. He saw Mrs. Craven so upright, so motionless, +looking at him across the room--with recognition, with some implied +claim. Why, he had spoken scarcely ten words to her. How could he +possibly have been of any use to her? And then, afraid lest his +momentary pause had been noticeable, he said eagerly--- + +"It is very kind of Mrs. Craven to say that. Of course I will come +if she really cares about it. I am not a man of many friends or many +occupations. . . ." + +She broke in upon him-- + +"You could be if you cared. I know, because Rupert has told me. They all +think you wonderful, but you don't care. Don't throw away friends, Mr. +Dune--one can be so lonely without them." + +Her voice shook a little and he was suddenly afraid that she was going +to cry. He bent towards her. + +"I think, perhaps, we are alike in that, Miss Craven. We do not make our +friends easily, but they mean a great deal to us when they come. Yes, +I _am_ lonely and I _am_ a little tired of bearing my worries alone, in +silence. Perhaps I can help you to stand this life a little better if I +tell you that--mine is every bit as hard." + +She turned to him eyes that were filled with gratitude. Her whole +body seemed to be touched with some new glow. Into the heart of their +consciousness of the situation that had arisen between them there came, +sharply, the sound of a shutting door. Then steps in the hall. + +"That's Rupert," she said. + +They both rose as he came into the room. He stood back in the shadow for +a moment as though surprised at Olva's presence. Then he came forward +very gravely. + +"I've found something of yours, Dune," he said. It lay, gleaming, in his +hand. "Your matchbox." + +Dune drew a sharp breath. Then he took it and looked at it. + +"Where did you find it?" + +"In Saunet Wood. Bunker and I have been for a walk there. Bunker found +it." + +As the three of them stood there, motionless, in the middle of the dark +room, Olva caught, through the open door, the last sad fading breath of +the "Valse Triste." + + + +CHAPTER VII + +TERROR + +1 + +That night the cold fell, like a plague, upon the town. It came, +sweeping across the long low flats, crisping the dark canals with white +frosted ice, stiffening the thin reeds at the river's edge, taking each +blade of grass and holding it in its iron hand and then leaving it an +independent thing of cold and shining beauty. At last it blew in wild +gales down the narrow streets, throwing the colour of those grey walls +against a sky of the sharpest blue, making of each glittering star a +frozen eye, carrying in its arms a round red sun that it might fasten +it, like a frosted orange, against its hard blue canopy. + +Already now, at half-past two of the afternoon, there were signs of the +early dusk. The blue was slowly being drained from the sky, and against +the low horizon a faint golden shadow soon to burn into the heart of the +cold blue, was hovering. + +Olva Dune, turning into the King's Parade, was conscious of crowds of +people, of a gaiety and life that filled the air with sound. He checked +sternly with a furious exercise of self-control his impulse to creep +back into the narrow streets that he had just left. + +"It's an Idea," he repeated over and over, as he stood there. "It's an +Idea. . . . You are like any one else--you are as you were . . . before +. . . everything. There is no mark--no one knows." + +For it seemed to him that above him, around him, always before him and +behind him there was a grey shadow, and that as men approached him this +shadow, bending, whispered, and, as they came to him, they flung at him +a frightened glance . . . and passed. + +If only he might take the arm of any one of those bright and careless +young men and say to him, "I killed Carfax--thus and thus it was." Oh! +the relief! the lifting of the weight! For then--and only then--this +pursuing Shadow, so strangely grave, not cruel, but only relentless, +would step back. Because that confession--how clearly he knew it!--was +the thing that God demanded. So long as he kept silence he resisted +the Pursuer--so long as he resisted the Pursuer he must fly, he must +escape--first into Silence, then into Sound, then back again to Silence. +Somewhere, behind his actual consciousness: there was the knowledge +that, did he once yield himself, life would be well, but that yielding +meant Confession, Renunciation, Devotion. It was not because it was +Carfax that he had killed, but it was because it was God that had spoken +to him, that he fled. + +A fortnight ago he would have been already defeated--the Pursuer should +have caught him, bound him, done with him as he would. But now--in that +same instant that young Craven had looked at him with challenge in his +eyes, in that instant also he, Olva, had looked at Margaret. + +In that silence, yesterday evening, in the dark drawing-room the two +facts had together leapt at him--he loved Margaret Craven, he was +suspected by Rupert Craven. Love had thus, terribly, grimly, and yet so +wonderfully, sprung into his heart that had never, until now, known its +lightest touch. Because of it--because Margaret Craven must never know +what he had done--he must fight Craven, must lie and twist and +turn. . . . His soul must belong to Margaret Craven, not to this +terrible, unperturbed, pursuing God. + +All night he had fought for control. A very little more and he would +rush crying his secret to the whole world; slowly he had summoned calm +back to him. Rupert Craven should be defeated; he would, quietly, visit +Sannet Wood, face it in its naked fact, stand before it and examine +it--and fight down once and for all this imagination of God. + +Those glances that men flung upon him, that sudden raising of the eyes +to his face . . . a man greeted him, another man waved his hand always +this same suspicion . . . the great grey shadow that bent and whispered +in their ears. + +He saw, too, another picture. High above him some great power was +seated, and down to earth there bent a mighty Hand. Into this Hand +very gently, very tenderly, certain figures were drawn--Mrs. Craven, +Margaret, Rupert, Bunning, even Lawrence. Olva was dragging with him, +into the heart of some terrible climax, these so diverse persons; he +could not escape now--other lives were twisted into the fabric of his +own. + +And yet with this certainty of the futility of it, he must still +struggle . . . to the very end. + +On that cold day the world seemed to stand, as men gather about a +coursing match, with hard eyes and jeering faces to watch the hopeless +flight. . . . + + +2 + +He fetched Banker from the stable where he was kept and set off along +the hard white road. He had behaved very badly to Bunker, a but the dog +showed no signs of delight at his release. On other days when he had +been kept in his stable for a considerable time he had gone mad with joy +and jumped at his master, wagging his whole body in excitement. Now he +walked very slowly by Olva's side, a little way behind him; when +Olva spoke to him he wagged his tail, but as though it were duty that +impelled it. + +The air grew colder aid colder--slowly now there had stolen on to the +heart of the blue sky white pinnacles of cloud--a dazzling whiteness, +but catching, mysteriously, the shadow of the gold light that heralded +the setting sun. These clouds were charged with snow; as they hung there +they seemed to radiate from their depths an even more piercing coldness. +They hung above Olva like a vast mountain range and had in their outline +so sharp and real an existence that they were part of the hard black +horizon, rising, immediately, out of the long, low, shivering flats. + +There was no sound in all the world; behind him, sharply, the Cambridge +towers bit the sky--before him like a clenched hand was the little +wood. + +The silence seemed to have a rhythm and voice of its own so that if one +listened, quite clearly the tramp of a marching army came over the level +ground. Always an army marching--and when suddenly a bird rose from the +canal with a sharp cry the tramping was caught, with the bird, for an +instant, into the air, and then when the cry was ended sank down again. +The wood enlarged; it lay upon the cold land now like a man's head; a +man with a cap. Spaces between the trees were eyes and it seemed that he +was lying behind the rim of the world and leaning his head upon the edge +of it and gazing. . . . + +Bunker suddenly stopped and looked up at his master. + +"Come on," Olva turned on to him sharply. + +The dog looked at him, pleading. Then in Olva's dark stern face he +seemed to see that there was no relenting--that wood must be faced. He +moved forward again, but slowly, reluctantly. All this nonsense that +Lawrence had talked about Druids. We will soon see what to make of +that. And yet, in the wood, it did seem as though there were something +waiting. It was now no longer a man's head--only a dark, melancholy band +of trees, dead black now against the high white clouds. + +There had risen in Olva the fighting spirit. Fear was still there, +ghastly fear, but also an anger, a rage. Why should he be thus +tormented? What had he done? Who was Carfax that the slaying of him +should be so unforgettable a sin? Moreover, had it been the mere vulgar +hauntings of remorse, terrors of a frightened conscience, he could +have turned upon himself the contempt that any Dune must deserve for so +ignoble a submission. + +But here there were other things--some-thing that no human resolution +could combat. He seized then eagerly on the things that he could +conquer--the suspicions of Rupert Craven, the rivalry of Cardillac, +the confidences of Bunning, . . . the grave tenderness of Margaret +Craven . . . these things he would clutch and hold, let the Pursuing +Spirits do what they would. + +As he entered the dark wood a few flakes of snow were falling. He +knew where the Druid Stones lay. He had once been shown them by some +undergraduate interested in such things. They lay a little to the right, +below the little crooked path and above the Hollow. + +The wood was not dripping now--held in the iron hand of the frost the +very leaves on the ground seemed to be made of metal; the bare twisted +branches of the trees shone with frosty--the earth crackled beneath his +foot and in the wood's silence, when he broke a twig with his boot the +sound shot into the air and rang against the listening stillness. + +He looked at the Hollow, Bunker close at his heels. He could see the +spot where he had first stood, talking to Carfax--there where the ferns +now glistened with silver. There was the place where Carfax had fallen. +Bunker was smelling with his head down at the ground. What did the dog +remember? What had Craven meant when he said that Bunker had found the +matchbox? + +He stood silently looking down at the Hollow. In his heart now there was +no terror. When, during these last days, he had been fighting his fear +it had always seemed to him that the heart of it lay in this Hollow. He +had always seen the dripping fern, smelt the wet earth, heard the sound +of the mist falling from the trees. Now the earth was clear and hard and +cold. The great white mountains drove higher into the sky, very softly +and gently a few white flakes were falling. + +With a great relief, almost a sigh of thank-fulness, he turned back +to the Druids' Stones. There they were--two of them standing upright, +stained with lichen, grey and weather-beaten, one lying flat, hollowed +a little in the centre. The ferns stood above them and the bare branches +of the trees crossed in strange shapes against the sky. + +Here, too, there was a peaceful, restful silence. No more was God in +these quiet stones than He had been in that noisy theatrical Revival +Meeting--Lawrence was wrong. Those old religions were dead. No more +could the Greek Gods pass smiling into the temples of their worshippers, +no more Wodin, Thor and the rest may demand their bloody sacrifice. + +These old stones are dead. The Gods are dead--but God? . . . + +He stayed there for a while and the snow fell more heavily. The golden +light had faded, the high white clouds had swallowed the blue. There +would soon be storm. + +In the wood--strangest of ironies--there had been peace. + +Now he started down the road again and was conscious, as the wood +slipped back into distance, of some vague alarm. + + +3 + +The world was now rapidly transformed. There had been promised a blaze +of glory, but the sun, red and angry, had been drowned by the thick +grey clouds that now flooded the air--dimly seen for an instant outlined +against the grey--then suddenly non-existent, leaving a world like a +piece of crumpled paper white and dark to all its boundaries. + +The snow fell now more swiftly but always gently, imperturbably--almost +it might seem with the whispering intention of some important message. + +Olva was intensely cold. He buttoned his coat tightly up to his ears, +but nevertheless the air was so biting that it hurt. Bunker, with his +head down, drove against the snow that was coming now ever more thickly. + +The peace that there had been in the little wood was now utterly gone. +The air seemed full of voices. They came with the snow, and as the +flakes blew more closely against his face and coat there seemed to press +about him a multitude of persons. + +He drove forward, but this sense of oppression increased with every +step. The wood had been swallowed by the storm. Olva felt like a man who +has long been struggling with some vice; insidiously the temptation has +grown in force and power--his brain, once so active in the struggle, is +now dimmed and dulled. His power of resistance, once so vigorous, is +now confused--confusion grows to paralysis--he can only now stare, +distressed, at the dark temptation, there have swept over him such +strong waters that struggle is no longer of avail--one last clutch at +the vice, one last desperate and hateful pleasure, and he is gone. . . . + +Olva knew that behind him in the storm the Pursuit was again upon him. +That brief respite in the wood had not been long granted him. The +snow choked him, blinded him, his body was desperately cold, his soul +trembling with fear. On every side he was surrounded--the world had +vanished, only the thin grey body of his dog, panting at his side, could +be dimly seen. + +God had not been in the wood, but God was in the storm. . . . + +A last desperate resistance held him. He stayed where he was and shouted +against the blinding snow. + +"There _is_ no God. . . . There _is_ no God." + +Suddenly his voice sank to a whisper. "There _is_ no God," he muttered. + +The dog was standing, his eyes wide with terror, his feet apart, his +body quivering. + +Olva gazed into the storm. Then, desperately, he started to run. . . . + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +REVELATION OF BUNNING (I) + +1 + +On that evening the College Debating Society exercised its mind over the +question of Naval Defence. + +One gentleman, timid of voice, uncertain in wit, easily dismayed by +the derisive laughter of the opposite party, asserted that "This House +considers the Naval policy of the present Government fatal to the +country's best interests." An eager politician, with a shrill voice +and a torrent of words, denied this statement. The College, with the +exception of certain gentlemen destined for the Church (they had been +told by their parents to speak on every possible public occasion in +order to be ready for a prospective pulpit), displayed a sublime and +somnolent indifference. The four gentlemen on the paper had prepared +their speeches beforehand and were armed with notes and a certain +nervous fluency. For the rest, the question was but slightly assisted. +The prospective members of the Church thought of many things to say +until they rose to their feet when they could only remember "that the +last gentleman's speech bad been the most preposterous thing they had +ever had the pleasure of listening to--and that, er--er--the Navy was +all right, and, er--if the gentleman who had spoken last but two +thought it wasn't, well, all they--er--could say was that it reminded +them--er--of a story they had once heard (here follows story without +point, conclusion or brevity)--and--er--in fact the Navy was all right. +. . ." + +The Debate, in short, was languishing when Dune and Cardillac entered +the room together. Here was an amazing thing. + +It was well known that only last night Cardillac and Dune had both +been proposed for the office of President of the Wolves. The Wolves, a +society of twelve founded for the purpose of dining well and dressing +beautifully, was by far the smartest thing that Saul's possessed. It was +famous throughout the University for the noise and extravagance of its +dinners, and you might not belong to it unless you had played for the +University on at least one occasion in some game or another and unless, +be it understood, you were, in yourself, quite immensely desirable. +Towards the end of every Christmas term a President for the ensuing year +was elected; he must be a second year man, and it was considered by +the whole college that this was the highest honour that the gods could +possibly, during your stay at Cambridge, confer upon you. Even the +members of the Christian Union, horrified though they were by the amount +of wine that was drunk on dining occasions and the consequent peril +to their own goods and chattels, bowed to the shining splendour of the +fortunate hero. It had never yet been known that a President of the +Wolves should also be a member of the Christian Union, but one must +never despair, and nets, the most attractive and genial of nets, were +flung to catch the great man. + +On the present occasion it had been generally understood that Cardillac +would be elected without any possible opposition. Dune had not for a +moment occurred to any one. He had; during his first term, when his +football prowess had passed, swinging through the University, been +elected to the Wolves, but he had only attended one dinner and had then +remained severely and unpleasantly sober. There was no other possible +rival to Cardillac, to his distinction, his power of witty and malicious +after-dinner speaking, his wonderful clothes, his admirable football, +his haughty indifference. He would of course be elected. + +And then, some three weeks ago, this wonderful, unexpected development +of Olva Dune had startled the world. His football, his sudden geniality +(he had been seen, it was asserted, at one of Med-Tetloe's revival +meetings with, of all people in the world, Bunning), his air of being +able to do anything whatever if he wished to exert himself, here was +a character indeed--so wonderful that it was felt, even by the most +patriotic of Saulines, that he ought, in reality, to have belonged to +St. Martin's. + +It became at once, of course, a case of rivalry between Dune and +Cardillac, and it was confidently expected that Dune would be victorious +in every part of the field. + +Cardillac had reigned for a considerable period and there were many men +to whom he had been exceedingly offensive. Dune, although he admitted no +one to closer intimacy, was offensive never. If, moreover, you had seen +him play the other day against the Harlequins, you could but fall down +on your knees and worship. Here, too, he rivalled Cardillac. Tester, +Buchan, and Whymper were quite certain of their places in the University +side--Whymper because he was the greatest three-quarter that Cambridge +had had for many seasons, and Tester and Buchan because they had been at +Fettes together and Buchan had played inside right to Tester's outside +since the very tenderest age; they therefore understood one another +backward. There remained then only this fourth place, and Cardillac +seemed certain enough . . . until Dune's revival. And now it depended +on Whymper. He would choose, of the two men, the one who suited him the +better. Cardillac had played with him more than had Dune. Cardillac +was safe, steady, reliable. Dune was uncertain, capricious, suddenly +indifferent. On the other hand not Whymper himself could rival the +brilliance of Dune's game against the Harlequins. That was in a place by +itself--let him play like that at Queen's Club in December and no Oxford +defence could stop him. + +So it was argued, so discussed. Certain, at any rate, that Dune's +recrudescence threatened the ruin of Cardillac's two dearest ambitions, +and Cardillac did not easily either forget or forgive. + +And yet behold them now, gravely, the gaze of the entire company, +entering together, sitting together by the fire, watching with serious +eyes the clumsy efforts of an unhappily ambitious Freshman to make +clear his opinions of the Navy, the Government and the British Islands +generally--only, ultimately, producing a tittering, stammering apology +for having burdened so long with his hapless clamour, the Debate. + + +2 + +Olva liked Cardillac--Cardillac liked Olva. They both in their attitude +to College affairs saw beyond the College gates into the wide and bright +world. Cardillac, when it had seemed that no danger could threaten +either his election to the Wolves or the acquisition of his Football +Blue, had regarded both honours quietly and with indifference. It amazed +him now when both these Prizes were seriously threatened that he should +still appreciate and even seek out Dune's company. + +Had it been any other man in the College he would have been a very +active enemy, but here was the one man who had that larger air, that +finer style whose gravity was beautiful, whose soul was beyond Wolves +and Rugby football, whose future in the real world promised to be of a +fine and highly ordered kind. Cardillac wished eagerly that these things +might yet be his, but if he were to be beaten, then, of all men in the +world, let it be by Dune. In his own scant, cynical estimate of his +fellow-beings Dune alone demanded a wide and appreciative attention. + +To Olva on this evening it mattered but little where he was or what he +did. The snow had ceased to fall, and now, under a starry sky, lay white +and glistening clear; but still with him storm seemed to hover, its snow +beating his body, its fury yieling him no respite. + +And now there was no longer any doubt. He faced it with the most +matter-of-fact self-possession of which he was capable. Some-thing was +waiting for his surrender. He figured it, sitting quietly back in the +reading-room, listening to the Debate, watching the faces around him, as +the tracing of some one who was dearly loved. There was nothing stranger +in it all than his own certainty that the Power that pursued him was +tender. And here he crossed the division between the Real and the +Unreal, because his present consciousness of this Power was as actual as +his consciousness of the chairs and tables that filled the reading-room. +That was the essential thing that made the supreme gulf between himself +and his companions. It was not because he had murdered Carfax but +because he was now absolutely conscious of God that he was so alone. He +could not touch his human companions, he could scarcely see them. It was +through this isolation that God was driving him to confession. Now, in +the outer Court, huge against the white dazzling snow, the great shadow +was hovering, its head piercing the stars, its arms outstretched. +Let him surrender and at once there would be infinite peace, but with +surrender must come submission, confession . . . with confession he must +lose the one thing that he desired--Margaret Craven . . . that he might +go and talk to her, watch her, listen to her voice. Meanwhile he must +not think. If he allowed his brain, for an instant, to rest, it was +flooded with the sweeping consciousness of the Presence--always he must +be doing something, his football, his companions, and often at the end +of it all, calmly, quietly, betrayed--hearing above all the clatter that +he might make the gentle accents of that Voice. He remembered that peace +that he had had in St. Martin's Chapel on the day of the discovery of +the body. What he would give to reclaim that now! + +Meanwhile he must battle; must quiet Craven's suspicions, must play +football, join company with men who seemed to him now like shadows. +As he glanced round at them--at Lawrence, Bunning, Galleon +Cardillac--they seemed to have far less existence than the grey shadow +in the outer Court. Sounds passed him like smoke--the lights grew faint +in his eyes . . . he was being drawn out into a world that was all of +ice--black ice stretching to every horizon; on the edge of it, vast +against the night sky, was the Grey Figure, waiting. + +"Come to Me. Tell Me that you will follow Me. I spoke to you in the +wood. You have broken My law. . . ." + +"Lot of piffle," he heard Cardillac's voice from a great distance. +"These freshers are always gassing." The electric light, seen through a +cloud of tobacco smoke, came slowly back to him, dull globes of colour. + +"It's so hot--I'm cutting," he whispered to Cardillac, and slipped out +of the room. + +He climbed to his room, flung back his door and saw that his light was +turned on. + +Facing him, waiting for him, was Bunning. + + +3 + +"If you don't want me----" he began with his inane giggle. + +"Sit down." Olva pulled out the whisky and two siphons of soda. "If I +didn't want you I'd say so." + +He filled himself a strong glass of whisky and soda and began feverishly +to drink. + +Bunning sat down. + +"Don't be such a blooming fool. Take off your gown if you're going to +stop." + +Bunning meekly took off his gown. His spectacles seemed so large that +they swallowed up the rest of his face; the spectacles and the enormous +flat-toed boots were the principal features of Bunning's attire. He sat +down again and gazed at Olva with the eyes of a devoted dog. Olva +looked at him. Over Bunning's red wrists the brown ends of a Jaeger vest +protruded from under the shirt. + +"I say, why don't you dress properly?" + +"I don't know---" began Bunning. + +"Well, the sleeves of your vest needn't come down like that. It looks +horribly dirty. Turn 'em up." + +Bunning, blushing almost to tears, turned them back. + +"There's no need to make yourself worse than you are, you know," Olva +finished his whisky and poured out some more. "Why do you come +here? . . . I'm always beastly to you." + +"As long as you let me come--I don't mind how beastly you are." + +"But what do you get from it?" + +Bunning looked down at his huge boots. + +"Everything. But it isn't that--it is that, without being here, I +haven't got anything else." + +"Well, you needn't wear such boots as that--and your shirts and things +aren't clean. . . . You don't mind my telling you, do you?" + +"No, I like it, Nobody's ever told me." + +Here obviously was a new claim for intimacy and this Olva hurriedly +disavowed. + +"Oh! It's only for your own good, you know. Fellows will like you better +if you're decently dressed. Why hasn't any one ever told you?" + +"They'd given me up at home." Bunning heaved a great sigh. + +"Why? Who are your people?" + +"My father's a parson in Yorkshire. They're all clergymen in my +family--uncles, cousins, everybody--my elder brother. I was to have been +a clergyman." + +"_Was_ to have been? Aren't you going to be one now?" + +"No--not since I met you." + +"Oh, but you mustn't take such a step on my account. I don't want to +prevent you. I've nothing to do with it. I should think you'd make a +very good parson." + +Olva was brutal. He felt that in Bunning's moist devoted eyes there was +a dim pain. But he was brutal because his whole soul revolted against +sentimentality, not at all because his soul revolted against Bunning. + +"No, I shouldn't make a good parson. I never wanted to be one really. +But when your house is full of it, as our house was, you're driven. When +it wasn't relations it was all sorts of people in the parish--helpers +and workers--women mostly. I hated them." + +Here was a real note of passion! Bunning seemed, for an instant, to be +quite vigorous. + +"That's why I'm so untidy now," Bunning went desperately on; "nobody +cared how I looked. I was stupid at school, my reports were awful, and +I was a day boy. It is very bad for any one to be a day boy--very!" he +added reflectively, as though he were recalling scenes and incidents. + +"Yes?" said Olva encouragingly. He was being drawn by Bunning's artless +narration away from the Shadow. It was still there, its arm outstretched +above the snowy court, but Bunning seemed, in some odd way, to +intervene. + +"I always wanted to find God in those days. It sounds a stupid thing +to say, but they used to speak about Him--mother and the rest--just as +though He lived down the street. They knew all about Him and I used to +wonder why I didn't know too. But I didn't. It wasn't real to me. I used +to make myself think that it was, but it wasn't." + +"Why didn't you talk to your mother about it?-- + +"I did. But they were always too busy with missions and things. And then +there was my elder brother. _He_ understood about God and went to all +the Bible meetings and things, and he was always so neat-never dirty--I +used to wonder how he did it . . . always so neat." + +Bunning took off his great spectacles and wiped them with a very dirty +handkerchief. + +"And had you no friends?" + +"None--nobody. I didn't want them after a bit. I was afraid of +everybody. I used to go down all the side-streets between school and +home for fear lest I should meet some one. I was always very nervous as +a boy--very. I still am." + +"Nervous of people?" + +"Yes, of everybody. And of things, too--things. I still am. You'd +be surprised. . . . It's odd because none of the other Bunnings are +nervous. I used to have fancies about God." + +"What sort of fancies?" + +"I used to see Him when I was in bed like a great big shadow, all up +against the wall. A grey shadow with his head ever so high. That's how I +used to think of Him. I expect that all sounds nonsense to you." + +"No, not at all!" said Olva. + +"I think they thought me nearly an idiot at home--not sane at all. But +they didn't think of me very often. They used to apologise for me when +people came to tea. I wasn't clever, of course--that's why they thought +I'd make a good parson." + +He paused--then very nervously he went on. "But now I've met you I +shan't be. Nothing can make me. I've always watched you. I used to look +at you in chapel. You're just as different from me as any one can be, +and that's why you're like God to me. I don't want you to be decent to +me. I think I'd rather you weren't. But I like to come in sometimes and +hear you say that I'm dirty and untidy. That shows that you've noticed." + +"But I'm not at all the sort of person to make a hero of," Olva said +hurriedly. "I don't want you to feel like that about we. That's all +sentimentality. You mustn't feel like that about anybody. You must stand +on your own legs." + +"I never have," said Burning, very solemnly, "and I never will. I've +always had somebody to make a hero of. I would love to die for you, I +would really. It's the only sort of thing that I can do, because I'm not +clever. I know you think me very stupid." + +"Yes, I do," said Olva, "and you mustn't talk like a schoolgirl. If +we're friends and I let you come in here, you mustn't let your vest come +over your cuffs and you must take those spots off your waistcoat, and +brush your hair and clean your nails, and you must just be sensible and +have a little humour. Why don't you play football?" + +"I can't play games, I'm very shortsighted." + +"Well, you must take some sort of exercise. Run round Parker's Piece or +something, or go and run at Fenner's. You'll get so fat." + +"I _am_ getting fat. I don't think it matters much what I look like." + +"It matters what every one looks like. And now you'd better cut. I've +got to go out and see a man." + +Burning submissively rose. He said no more but bundled out of the door +in his usual untidy fashion. Olva came after him and banged his "oak" +behind him. In Outer Court, looking now so vast and solemn in the +silence of its snow, Bunning, stopping, pointed to the grey buildings +that towered over them. + +"It was against a wall like that that I used to imagine God--on a night +like this--you'll think that very silly." He hurriedly added, "There's +Marshall coming. I know he'll be at me about those Christian Union +Cards. Good-night." He vanished. + +But it was not Marshall. It was Rupert Craven. The boy was walking +hurriedly, his eyes on the ground. He was suddenly conscious of some +one and looked up. The change in him was extraordinary. His eyes had +the heavy, dazed look of one who has not slept for weeks. His face was +a yellow white, his hair unbrushed, and his mouth moved restlessly. He +started when he saw Olva. + +"Hallo, Craven. You're looking seedy. What's the matter?" + +"Nothing, thanks. . . . Good-night." + +"No, but wait a minute. Come up to my rooms and have some coffee. I +haven't seen you for days." + +A fortnight ago Craven would have accepted with joy. Now he shook his +head. + +"No, thanks. I'm tired: I haven't been sleeping very well." + +"Why's that? Overwork?" + +"No, it's nothing. I don't know why it is." + +"You ought to see somebody. I know what not sleeping means." + +"Why? . . . Are _you_ sleeping badly?" Craven's eyes met Olva's. + +"No, I'm splendid, thanks. But I had a bout of insomnia years ago. I +shan't forget it." + +"You _look_ all right." Cravan's eyes were busily searching Olva's face. +Then suddenly they dropped. + +"I'm all right," he said hurriedly. "Tired, that's all." + +"Why do you never come and see me now?" + +"Oh, I will come--sometime. I'm busy." + +"What about?" + +Olva stood, a stern dark figure, against the snow. + +"Oh, just busy." Craven suddenly looked up as though he were going to +ask Olva a question. Then he apparently changed his mind, muttered a +good-night and disappeared round the corner of the building. + +Olva was alone in the Court. From some room came the sound of voices and +laughter, from some other room a piano--some one called a name in Little +Court. A sheet of stars drew the white light from the snow to heaven. + +Olva turned very slowly and entered his black stairway. + +In his heart he was crying, "How long can I stand this? Another day? +Another hour? This loneliness. . . . I must break it. I must tell some +one. I _must_ tell some one." + +As he entered his room he thought that he saw against the farther wall +an old gilt mirror and in the light of it a dark figure facing him; a +voice, heavy with some great overburdening sorrow, spoke to him. + +"How terrible a thing it is to be alone with God!" + + + +CHAPTER IX + +REVELATION OF BUNNING (II) + +1 + +The next day the frost broke, and after a practice game on the Saul's +ground, in preparation for a rugby match at the end of the week, Olva, +bathed and feeling physically a fine, overwhelming fitness, went to see +Margaret Craven. + +This sense of his physical well-being was extraordinary. Mentally he +was nearly beaten, almost at the limit of his endurance. Spiritually the +catastrophe hovered more closely above him at every advancing moment, +but, physically, he had never, in all his life before, felt such +magnificent health. He had been sleeping badly now for weeks. He had +been eating very little, but he felt no weariness, no faintness. It +was as though his body were urging upon him the importance of his +resistance, as though he were perceiving, too, with unmistakable +clearness the cleavage that there was between body and soul. And indeed +this vigour _did_ give him an energy to set about the numberless things +that he had arranged to fill every moment of his day--the many little +tinkling bells that he had set going to hide the urgent whisper of that +other voice. He carried his day through with a rush, a whirl, so that +he might be in bed again at night almost before he had finished his +dressing in the morning--no pause, no opportunity for silence. . . . + +And now he must see Margaret Craven, see her for herself, but also see +her to talk to her about her brother. How much did Rupert Craven know? +How much--and here was the one tremendous question--had he told his +sister? As Olva waited, once again, in the musty hall, saw once more the +dim red glass of the distant window, smelt again the scent of oranges, +his heart was beating so that he could not hear the old woman's +trembling voice. How would Margaret receive him? Would there be in her +eyes that shadow of distrust that he always saw now in Rupert's? His +knees were trembling and he had to stay for an instant and pull himself +together before he crossed the drawing-room threshold. + +And then he was, instantly, reassured. Margaret was alone in the dim +room, and as she came to meet him he saw in her approach to him that +she had been wanting him. In her extended hands he found a welcome that +implied also a need. He felt, as he met her and greeted her and looked +again into the grave, tender eyes that he had been wanting so badly ever +since he had seen them last, that there was nothing more wonderful than +the way that their relationship advanced between every meeting. They +met, exchanged a word or two and parted, but in the days that separated +them their spirits seemed to leap together, to crowd into lonely hours a +communion that bound them more closely than any physical intimacy could +do. + +"Oh! I'm so glad you've come. I had hoped it, wanted it." + +He sat down close to her, his dark eyes on her face. + +"You're in trouble? I can see." + +She bent her eyes gravely on the fire, and as slowly she tried to put +together the things that she wished to say he felt, in her earnest +thoughtfulness, a rest, a relief, so wonderful that it was like plunging +his body into cool water after a long and arid journey. + +"No, it is nothing. I don't want to make things more overwhelming than +they are. Only, it is, I think, simply that during these last days when +mother and Rupert have both been ill, I have been overwhelmed." + +"Rupert?" + +"Yes, we'll come to him in a moment. You must remember," she smiled up +at him as she said it, "that I'm not the least the kind of person who +makes the best of things--in fact I'm not a useful person at all. I +suppose being abroad so long with my music spoiled me, but whatever it +is I seem unable to wrestle with things. They frighten me, overwhelm me, +as I say . . . I'm frightened now." + +He looked up at her last word and caught a corner reflection in the old +gilt mirror--a reflection of a multitude of little things; silver boxes, +photograph frames, old china pots, little silk squares, lying like +scattered treasures from a wreck on a dark sea. + +"What are you frightened about?" + +"Well, there it is--nothing I suppose. Only I'm not good at managing +sick people, especially when there's nothing definitely the matter with +them. It's a case with all three of us--a case of nerves." + +"Well, that's as serious a thing as any other disease." + +"Yes, but I don't know what to do with it. Mother lies there all day. +She seldom speaks, she scarcely eats anything. She entirely refuses to +have a doctor. But worse than that is the extraordinary feeling that +she has had during this last week about Rupert. She refuses to see him," +Margaret Craven finally brought out. + +"Refuses?" + +"Yes, she says that he is altered to her. She says that he will not let +her alone, that he is imagining things. Poor Rupert is most terribly +distressed. He is imagining nothing. He would do anything for her, he is +devoted to her." + +"Since when has she had this idea?" + +"You remember the day that you came last? when Rupert came in and had +found your matchbox. It began about then. . . . Of course Rupert has +not been well--he has never been well since that dreadful death of Mr. +Carfax, and certainly since that day when you were here I think that +he's been worse--strange, utterly unlike himself, sleeping badly, eating +nothing. Poor, poor Rupert, I would do anything for him, for them +both, but I am so utterly, utterly useless, What can I do?" she finally +appealed to him. + +"You said once," he answered her slowly, "that I could help you. If you +still feel that, tell me, and I will do anything, anything. You know +that I will do anything." + +They came together, in that terrible room, like two children out of the +dark. He suddenly caught her hand and she let him hold it. Then, very +gently, she withdrew it. + +"I think that you can make all the difference," she answered slowly. +"Mother often speaks of you. I told you before that she wants so much to +see you, and if you would do that, if you would go up, for just a little +time, and sit with her, I believe you would soothe her as no one else +can. I don't know why I feel that, but I know that she feels it too. You +_are_ restful," she said suddenly, with a smile, flung up at him. + +And again, as on the earlier occasion, he shrank from the thing that she +asked him. He had felt, from the very moment this afternoon that he had +entered the house, that that thing would be asked of him. Mrs. Craven +wanted him. He could feel the compulsion of her wish drawing him through +walls and floors and all the obstructions of the world. + +"Of course I'll go," he said. + +"Ah! that will help. It would be so good of you. Poor mother, it's +lonely for her up there all day, and I know that she thinks about +things, about father, and it's not good for her. You might perhaps say +a word too about Rupert. I cannot imagine what it is that she is feeling +about him." She paused, and then with a sigh, rising from their chair, +longingly brought out, "Oh! but for all of us! to get away--out of this +house, out of this place, that's the thing we want!" + +She stood there in her black dress, so simply, so appealingly before +him, that it was all that he could do not to catch her in his arms and +bold her. He did indeed rise and stand beside her, and there in silence, +with the dim room about them, the oppressive silence so ominous +and sinister, they came together with a closeness that no earlier +intercourse had given them. + +Olva seemed, for a short space, to be relieved from his burdens. For +them both, so young, so helpless against powers that were ruthless in +the accomplishment of wider destinies, they were allowed to find in +these silent minutes a brief reprieve. + +Then, with the sudden whirring and shrill clatter of an ancient clock, +action began again, but before the striking hour had entirely died away, +he said to her, "Whatever happens, we are, at any rate, friends. We can +snatch a moment together even out of the worst catastrophe." + +"You're afraid . . . ?" Her breath caught, as she flung a look about the +room. + +"One never knows." + +"It is all so strange. There in Dresden everything was so happy, so +undisturbed, the music and one's friends; it was all so natural. And +now--here--with Rupert and mother--it's like walking in one's sleep." + +"Well, I'll walk with you," he assured her. + +But indeed that was exactly what it _was_ like, he thought, as he +climbed the old and creaking stairs. How often had one dreamed of the +old dark house, the dusty latticed windows, the stairs with the gaping +boards, at last that thin dark passage into which doors so dimly opened, +that had black chasms at either end of it, whose very shadows seemed +to demand the dripping of some distant water and the shudder of some +trembling blind. In a dream too there was that sense of inevitability, +of treading unaccustomed ways with an assured, accustomed tread that +was with him now. The old woman who had conducted him stopped at a door, +hidden by the dusk, and knocked. She opened it and wheezed out-- + +"Mr. Dune, m'am;" and then, standing back for him to pass, left him +inside. + +As the door closed he was instantly conscious of an overwhelming desire +for air, a longing to fling open the little diamond-paned window. The +ceiling was very low and a fierce fire burned in the fireplace. There +was little furniture, only a huge white bed hovered in the background. +Olva was conscious of a dark figure lying on a low chair by the fire, a +figure that gave you instantly those long white hands and those burning +eyes and gave you afterwards more slowly the rest of the outline. But +its supreme quality was its immobility. That head, that body, those +hands, never moved, only behind its dark outline the bright fire +crackled and flung its shadows upon the wall. + +"I am sorry that you are not so well." + +Mrs. Craven's dark eyes searched his face. "You are restful to me. I +like you to come. But I would not intrude upon your time." + +Olva said, "I am very glad to come if I can be of any service. If there +is anything that I can do." + +The eyes seemed the only part of her body that lived. It was the eyes +that spoke. "No, there is nothing that any one can do. I do not care for +talking. Soon I will be downstairs again, I hope. It is lonely for my +daughter." + +"There is Rupert." + +At the mention of the name her eyes were suddenly sheathed. It was like +the instant quenching of some light. She did not answer him. + +"Tell me about yourself. What you do, what you care about . . . your +life." + +He told her a little about his home, his father, but he had a strange, +overwhelming conviction that she already knew. He felt, also, that she +regarded these things that he told her as preliminaries to something +else that he would presently say. He paused. + +"Yes?" she said. + +"I am tiring you. I have talked enough. It is time for me to be back in +College." + +She did not contradict him. She watched him as he said good-bye. For +one moment he touched her chill, unresponsive hand, for an instant their +eyes, dark, sombre, met. The thought flew to his brain, "My God, how +lonely she is . . ." and then, "My God, how lonely I am." Slowly and +quietly he closed the door behind him. + + +2 + +That night the Shadow was nearer, more insistent; the closer it came +the more completely was the real world obscured. This obscurity was now +shutting oil from him everything; it was exactly as though his whole +body bad been struck numb so that he might touch, might hold, but +could feel nothing. Again it was as though he were confined in a damp, +underground cell and the world above his head was crying out with life +and joy. In his hand was the key of the door; he had only to use it. + +Submission--to be taken into those arms, to be told gently what he +must do, and then--Obedience--perhaps public confession, perhaps death, +struggling, ignominious death . . . at least, never again Margaret +Craven, never again her companionship, her understanding, never again +to help her and to feel that warm sure clasp of her hand. What would she +say, what would she do if she were told? That remained for him now the +one abiding question. But he could not doubt what she would do. He saw +the warmth fading from the eyes, the hard stern lines settling about the +mouth, the cold stiffening of her whole body. No, she must never know, +and if Rupert discovered the truth, he, Olva, must force him, for his +sister's sake, to keep silence. But if Rupert knew he would tell his +sister, and she would believe him. No use denials then. + +And on the side of it all was the Shadow, with him now, with him in the +room. + + All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me. + +The line from some poem came to him. It was true, true. His life that +had been the life of a man was now the life of a Liar--Liar to his +friends, Liar to Margaret, Liar to all the world--so his shuddering +soul cowered there, naked, creeping into the uttermost corner to escape +the Presence. + +If only for an hour he might be again himself---might shout aloud the +truth, boast of it, triumph in it, be naked in the glory of it. Day +by day the pressure had been increased, day by day his loneliness had +grown, day by day the pursuit had drawn closer. + +And now he hardly recognized the real from the false. He paced his room +frantically. He felt that on the other side of the bedroom door there +was terror. He had turned on all his lights; a furious fire was blazing +in the grate; beyond the windows cold stars and an icy moon, but in here +stifling heat. + +When Bunning (the clocks were striking eleven) came blinking in upon him +he was muttering--"Let me go, let me go. I killed him, I tell you. I'm +glad I killed him. . . . Oh! Let me alone! For pity's sake let me alone! +I _can't_ confess! Don't you see that I can't confess? There's Margaret. +I must keep her---afterwards when she knows me better I'll tell her." + +As he faced Bunning's staring glasses, the thought came to Him, "Am I +going mad?--Has it been too much for me?---Mad?" + +He stopped, wheeled round, caught the table with both hands, and leaned +over to Bunning, who stood, his mouth open, his cap and gown still on. + +Olva very gravely said: "Come in, Bunning. Shut the door. 'Sport' it. +That's right. Take off your gown and sit down." + +The man, still staring, white and frightened, sat down. + +Olva spoke slowly and very distinctly: "I'm glad you've come. I want to +talk to you. I killed Carfax, you know." As he said the words he began +slowly to come back to himself from the Other World to this one. How +often, sleeping, waking, had he said those words! How often, aloud, in +his room, with his door locked, had he almost shouted them! + +He was not now altogether sure whether Bunning were really there or no. +His spectacles were there, his boots were there, but was Bunning there? +If he were not there. . . . + +But he _was_ there. Olva's brain slowly cleared and, for the first time +for many weeks, he was entirely himself. It was the first moment of +peace that he had known since that hour in St. Martin's Chapel. + +He was quiet, collected, perfectly calm. He went over to the window, +opened it, and rejoiced in the breeze. The room seemed suddenly empty. +Five minutes ago it had been crowded, breathless. There was now only +Bunning. + +"It was so awfully hot with that enormous fire," he said. + +Bunning's condition was peculiar. He sat, his large fat face white and +streaky, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands gripping the +sides of the armchair. His boots stuck up in the most absurd manner, +like interrogation marks. He watched Olva's face fearfully. At last he +gasped-- + +"I say, Dune, you're ill. You are really--you're overdone. You ought to +see some one, you know. You ought really, you ought to go to bed." His +words came in jerks. + +Olva crossed the room and stood looking down upon him. + +"No, Bunning, I'm perfectly well. . . . There's nothing the matter with +me. My nerves have been a bit tried lately by this business, keeping it +all alone, and it's a great relief to me to have told you." + +The fact forced itself upon Bunning's brain. At last in a husky whisper: +"You . . . killed . . . Carfax?" And then the favourite expression of +such weak souls as he: "Oh! my God! Oh! my God!" + +"Now look here, don't get hysterical about it. You've got to take it +quietly as I do. You said the other day you'd do anything for me. . . . +Well, now you've got a chance of proving your devotion." + +"My God! My God!" The boots feebly tapped the floor. + +"I had to tell somebody. It was getting on my nerves. I suppose it gives +you a kind of horror of me. Don't mind saying so if it does." + +Bunning, taking out a grimy handkerchief, wiped his forehead. He shook +his head without speaking. + +Olva sat down in the chair opposite him and lit his pipe. + +"I want to tell somebody all about it. You weren't really, I suppose, +the best person to tell. You're a hysterical sort of fellow and you're +easily frightened, but you happened to come in just when I was rather +worked up about it. At any rate you've got to face it now and you must +pull yourself together as well as you can. . . . Move away from the +fire, if you're hot." + +Bunning shook his head. + +Olva continued: "I'm going to try to put it quite plainly to you, the +Carfax part of it I mean. There are other things that have happened +since that I needn't bother you with, but I'd like you to understand why +I did it." + +"Oh! my God!" said Bunning. He was trembling from head to foot and his +fat hands rattled on the woodwork of the chair and his feet rattled on +the floor. + +"I met Carfax first at my private school---a little, fat dirty boy he +was then, and fat and dirty he's been ever since. I hated him, but I was +always pleasant to him. He wasn't worth being angry with. He always did +rotten things. He knew more filthy things than the other boys, and he +was a bully--a beastly bully. I think he knew that I bated him, but we +were on perfectly good terms. I think he was always a little afraid +of me, but it's curious to remember that we never had a quarrel of any +kind, until the day when I killed him." + +Olva paused and asked Bunning to have a drink. Bunning, gazing at him +with desperate eyes, shook his head. + +"Then we went on to Rugby together. It's odd how Fate has apparently +been determined to hammer out our paths side by side. Carfax grew more +and more beastly. He always did the filthiest things and yet out of +it all seemed to the world at large a perfectly decent fellow. He was +clever in that way. I am not trying to defend myself. I'm making it +perfectly straightforward and just as it really was. He knew that I knew +him better than anybody, and as we went on at Rugby I think that his +fear of me grew. I didn't hate him so much for being Carfax, but rather +as standing for all sorts of rotten things. It didn't matter to me in +the least whether he was a beast or not, I'm a beast myself, but it did +matter that he should smile about it and have damp hands. When I touched +his hand I always wanted to hit him. + +"I've got a very sudden temper, all my family are like that--calm +most of the time and then absolutely wild. I hated him more up here +at College than I'd hated him at school. He developed and still his +reputation was just the same, decent fellows like Craven followed him, +excused him; he had that cheery manner. . . . Hating him became a habit +with me. I hated everything that he did--his rolling walk down the +Court, his red colour, his football . . . and then he ruined that fellow +Thompson. That was a poor game, but no one seemed to think anything of +it . . . and indeed he and I seemed to be very good friends. He used to +sneer at me behind my back, I know, but I didn't mind that. Any one's +at liberty to sneer if they like. But he was really afraid of me . . . +always. + +"Then at last there was this girl that he set about destroying. He +seduced her, promised her marriage. I knew all about it, because she +used to be rather a friend of mine. I warned her, but she was absolutely +infatuated--wouldn't hear of anything that I had to say, thought it all +jealousy. She wasn't the kind of girl who could stand disgrace. . . . +She came to him one day and told him that she was going to have a baby. +He laughed at her in the regular old conventional way . . . and that +very afternoon, after he had seen her, he met me--there in Sannet Wood. + +"He began to boast about it, told me jokingly about the way that he'd +'shut her mouth,' as he called it . . . laughed . . . I hit him. I meant +to hit him hard, I hated him so; I think that I wanted to kill him. +All the accumulated years were in that blow, I suppose; at any rate, I +caught him on the chin and it broke his neck and he dropped . . . that's +all." + +Olva paused, finished his drink, and ended with-- + +"There it is--it's simple enough. I'm not in the least sorry I killed +him. I've no regrets; he was better out of the world than in it, and +I've probably saved a number of people from a great deal of misery. I +thought at first that I should be caught, but they aren't very sharp +round here and there was really nothing to connect me with it. But there +were other things--there's more in killing a man than the mere killing. +I haven't been able to stand the loneliness---so I told you." + +The last words brought him back to Bunning, a person whom he had almost +forgotten. A sudden pity for the man's distress made his voice tender. +"I say, Running, I oughtn't to have told you. It's been too much for +you. But if you knew the relief that it is to me. . . . Though, mind +you, if it's on your conscience, if it burdens you, you must 'out' with +it. Don't have any scruples about me. But it needn't burden you. _You_ +hadn't any-thing to do with it. You were here and I told you. That's +all. I've shown you that I want you as a friend." + +For answer the creature burst suddenly into tears, hiding his face +in his sleeve, as small boys hide their faces, and choking out +desperately-- + +"Oh! my God! Oh! my God!" + + + +CHAPTER X + +CRAVEN + +1 + +That evening Olva was elected President of the Wolves. It was a ceremony +conducted with closed doors and much drinking of wine, by a committee +of four and the last reigning President who had the casting vote. The +College waited in suspense and at eleven o'clock it was understood that +Dune had been elected. + +According to custom, on the day following in "Hall" Olva would be +cheered by the assembled undergraduates whilst the gods on the dais +smiled gently and murmured that "boys will be boys." + +Meanwhile the question that agitated the Sauline world was the way that +Cardillac would take it. "If it had been any one else but Dune . . ." +but it couldn't have been any one else. There was no other possible +rival, and "Cards," like the rest of the world, bowed to Dune's charm. +The Dublin match, to be played now in a fortnight's time, would settle +the football question. It was generally expected that they would try +Dune in that match and judge him finally then on his play. There was a +good deal of betting on the matter, and those who remembered his earlier +games said that nothing could ever make Dune a reliable player and that +it was a reliable player that was wanted. + +When Olva came into "Hall" that evening he was conscious of two pairs +of eyes, Craven's and Bunning's. On either side of the high vaulted hall +the tables were ranged, and men, shouting, waving their glasses, lined +the benches. Olva's place was at the end farthest from the door and +nearest the High Table, and he had therefore the whole room to cross. +He was smiling a little, a faint colour in his cheeks. At his own end of +the table Craven was standing, silent, with his eyes gravely fixed upon +Olva's face. Half-way down the hall there was Bunning, and Olva could +see, as he passed up the room, that the man was trembling and was +pressing his hands down upon the table to hold his body still. + +When Olva had sat down and the cheering had passed again into the +cheerful hum that was customary, the first voice that greeted him was +Cardillac's. + +"Congratulations, old man. I'm delighted." + +There was no question of Cardillac's sincerity. Craven was sitting four +places lower down; he had turned the other way and was talking eagerly +to some man on his farther side--but the eyes that had met Olva's two +minutes before had been hostile. + +Cardillac went on: "Come in to coffee afterwards, Dune; several men are +coming in." + +Olva thanked him and said that he would. The world was waiting to see +how "Cards" would take it, and, beyond question, "Cards" was taking it +very well. Indeed an observer might have noticed that "Cards" was too +absorbed by the way that Dune was "taking it" to "take it" himself +consciously at all. Olva's aloof surveying of the world about him, as a +man on a hill surveys the town in the valley, made of "Cards'" last year +and a half a gaudy and noisy thing. He had thought that his attitude had +been nicely adjusted, but now he saw that there were still heights to be +reached--perhaps in this welcome that he was giving to Dune's success +he might attain his position. . . . Not, in any way, a bad fellow, this +Cardillac--but obsessed by a self-conscious conviction that the world +was looking at him; the world never looks for more than an instant at +self-consciousness, but it dearly loves self-forgetfulness, for that +implies a compliment to itself. + +Afterwards, in Cardillac's handsome and over-careful rooms, there was +an attempt at depth. The set--Lawrence, Galleon, Craven and five or six +more--never thought about Life unless drink drove them to do so, and +drink drove them to-night. A long, thin man, Williamson by name, with a +half-Blue for racquets and a pensive manner, had a favourite formula on +these occasions: "But think of a rabbit now . . ." only conveying by the +remark that here was a proof of God's supreme, astounding carelessness. +"You shoot it, you know, without turning a hair (no joke, you rotter), +and it breeds millions a week . . . and--does it think about it, that's +what I want to know? Where's its soul? + +"Hasn't got a soul. . . ." + +"Well, what _is_ the soul, anyway?" + +There you are-the thing's properly started, and the more the set drinks +the vaguer it gets until finally it goes happily to bed and wakes with a +headache and a healthy opinion that "Religion and that sort of stuff is +rot" in the morning. That is precisely as far as intellect ever ventured +in Saul's. There may have been quaint obscure fellows who sported their +oaks every night and talked cleverly on ginger-beer, but they were +not admitted as part of the scheme of things. . . . Saulines, to quote +Lawrence, "are _not_ clever." + +They were not especially clever to-night, thought Olva, as he sat in the +shadow away from the light of the fire and watched them sitting back in +enormous armchairs, with their legs stretched out, blowing wreaths of +smoke into the air, drinking whiskies and sodas . . . no, not clever. + +Craven, the shadows blacker than ever under his eyes, was on the +opposite side of the room from Olva. He sat with his head down and was +silent. + +"Think of a rabbit now," said Williamson. + +"I suppose," said Galleon, who was not gifted, "that they're happy +enough." + +"Yes, but what do they _make_ of it all?" + +At this moment Craven suddenly burst in with "Where's Carfax?" + +This question was felt by every one to be tactless. Elaborately, +with great care and some considerable effort, Carfax had been +forgotten--forgotten, it seemed, by every one save Craven. He had been +forgotten because his death did not belong to the Cambridge order of +things, because it raised unpleasant ideas, and made one morbid and +neurotic. It had, in fact, nothing in common with cold baths, marmalade, +rugby football, and musical comedy. + +On the present occasion the remark was especially unpleasant because +Craven had made it in so odd a manner. During the last few weeks it +had been very generally noticed that Craven had not been himself--so +pleasant and healthy a fellow he had always been, but now this Carfax +business was too much for him. "Look out for young Craven" had been the +general warning, implied if not expressed. Persons who threatened to be +unusual were always marked down in Cambridge. + +And now Craven _had_ been unusual--"Where's Carfax?" . . . What a +dreadful thing to say and how tactless! The note, moreover, in Craven's +voice sounded a danger. There was something in the air as though the +fellow might, at any moment, burst into tears, fire a pistol into the +air, or jump out of the window! So unpleasant, and Carfax was much more +real, even now, than an abstract rabbit. + +"Dear boy," said Cardillac, easily, "Carfax is dead. We all miss him--it +was a beastly, horrible affair, but there's no point in dwelling on +things; one only gets morbid, and morbidity isn't what we're here for." + +"It's all very well," Craven was angrily muttering, "but it's scandalous +the way you forget a man. Here he was, amongst the whole lot of you, +only a month or so ago and he was a friend of every one's. And then some +brute kills him--he's done for--and you don't care a damn . . . it's +beastly--it makes one sick." + +"Where do _you_ think he is, Craven?" Olva asked quietly from his +shadowy corner. + +Craven flung up his head. "Perhaps _you_ can tell us," he cried. There +was such hostility in his voice that the whole room was startled. Poor +Craven! He really was very unwell. The sight of his tired eyes and white +cheeks, the shadow of his hand quivering on his knee--here were +signs that all was not as it should be. Gone, now, at any rate, any +possibility of a comfortable evening. Craven said no more but still sat +there with his head banging, his only movement the shaking of his hand. + +Cardillac tried to bring ease back again, Williamson once more started +his rabbits, but now there was danger in that direction. Conversation +fell, heavily, helplessly, to the ground. Some man got up to go and some +one else followed him. It was the wrong moment for departure for they +had drunk enough to make it desirable to drink more, but to escape from +that white face of Craven's was the thing--out into the air. + +At last Craven himself got up. "I must be off," he said heavily. + +"So must I," Olva said, coming forward from his corner. Craven flung him +a frightened glance and then passed stumbling out of the door. + +Olva caught him up at the bottom of the dark stairs. He put a hand on +Craven's trembling arm and held him there. + +"I want to talk to you, Craven. Come up to my room." + +Craven tried to wrench his arm away. "No, I'm tired. I want to go to +bed." + +"You haven't been near me for weeks. Why?" + +"Oh, nothing--let me go. I'll come up another time." + +"No, I _must_ talk to you--now. Come." Olva's voice was stern--his face +white and hard. + +"No--I won't." + +"You must. I won't keep you long. I have something to tell you." + +Craven suddenly ceased to struggle. He gazed straight into Olva's eyes, +and the look that he gave him was the strangest thing--something of +terror, something of anger, a great wonder, and even--strangest of +all!--a struggling affection. + +"I'll come," he said. + +In Olva's room he stood, a disturbed figure facing the imperturbability +of the other man with restless eyes and hands that moved up and down +against his coat. Olva commanded the situation, with stern eyes he +seemed to be the accuser. . . . + +"Sit down--fill a pipe." + +"No, I won't sit--what do you want?" + +"Please sit. It's so much easier for us both to talk. I can't say the +things that I want to when you're standing over me. Please sit down." + +Craven sat down. + +Olva faced him. "Now look here, Craven, a little time ago you came and +wished that we should see a good deal of one another. You came in here +often and you took me to see your people. You were charming . . . I was +delighted to be with you." + +Olva paused--Craven said nothing. + +"Then suddenly, for no reason that I can understand, this changed. Do +you remember that afternoon when you had tea with me here and I went to +sleep? It was after that--you were never the same after that. And it has +been growing worse. Now you avoid me altogether--you don't speak to me +if you can help it. I'm not a man of many friends and I don't wish to +lose one without knowing first what it is that I have done. Will you +tell me what it is?" + +Craven made no answer. His eyes passed restlessly up and down the room +as though searching for some way of escape. He made little choking +noises in his throat. When Olva had had no answer to his question, he +went gravely on-- + +"But it isn't only your attitude to me that matters, although I _do_ +want you to explain that. But I want you also to tell me what the damage +is. You're most awfully unwell. You're an utterly different man--changed +entirely during the last week or two, and we've all noticed it. But +it doesn't only worry us here; it worries your mother and sister too. +You've no right to keep it to yourself." + +"There's nothing the matter." + +"Of course there is. A man doesn't alter in a day for nothing, and I +date it all from that evening when you had tea with me, and I can't help +feeling that it's something that I can clear up. If it _is_ anything +that I can do, if I can clear your bother up in any way, you have only +to tell me. And," he added slowly, "I think at least that you owe me an +explanation of your own personal avoidance of me. No man has any right +to drop a friend without giving his reasons. You know that, Craven." + +Craven suddenly raised his weary eyes. "I never was a friend of yours. +We were acquaintances--that's all." + +"You made me a friend of your mother and sister. I demand an +explanation, Craven." + +"There is no explanation. I'm not well--out of condition." + +"Why?" + +"Why is a fellow ever out of condition? I've been working too hard, I +suppose. . . . But you said you'd got something to tell me. What have +you got to tell me?" + +"Tell me first what is troubling you." + +"No." + +"You refuse?" + +"Absolutely." + +"Then I have nothing to tell you." + +"Then you brought me in here on a lie. I should never have come if---" + +"Yes?" + +"If I hadn't thought you had something to tell me." + +"What should I have to tell you?" + +"I don't know . . . nothing." + +There was a pause, and then with a sudden surprising force, Craven +almost appealed-- + +"Dune, you _can_ help me. You can make a great difference. I _am_ +ill; it's quite true. I'm not myself a bit and I'm tortured by +imaginations--awful things. I suppose Carfax has got on my nerves and +I've had absurd fancies. You _can_ help me if you'll just answer me one +question--only one. I don't want to know anything else, I'll never +ask you anything else--only this. Where were you on the afternoon that +Carfax was murdered?" + +He brought it out at last, his hands gripping the sides of his chair, +all the agonized uncertainty of the last few weeks in his voice. Olva +faced him, standing above him, and looking down upon him. + +"My dear Craven--what an odd question--why do you want to know?" + +"Well, finding your matchbox like that--there in Sannet Wood--and I know +you must have lost it just about then because I remember your looking +for it here. I thought that perhaps you might have seen somebody, had +some kind of suspicion. . . ." + +"Well, I _was_, as a matter of fact, there that very afternoon. I walked +through the wood with Bunker--rather late. I met no one during the whole +of the time." + +"No one?" + +"No one." + +"You have no suspicion?" + +"No suspicion." + +The boy relapsed from his eagerness into his heavy dreary indifference. +His lips were working. Olva seemed to catch the words--"Why should it be +I? Why should it be I?" Olva came over to him and placed his hand on his +shoulder. + +"Look here, old man, I don't know what's the matter with you, but it's +plain enough that you've got this Carfax business on your nerves--drop +it. It does no good--it's the worst thing in the world to brood about. +Carfax is dead--if I could help you to find his murderer I would--but I +can't." + +Craven's whole body was trembling under Olva's hand. Olva moved back to +his chair. + +"Craven, listen to me. You _must_ listen to me." Then, speaking very +slowly he brought out-"I _have_ a right to speak to you--a great right. +I wish to marry your sister." + +Craven started up from his chair. + +"No, no," he cried. "You! Never, so long as I can prevent it." + +"You have no right to say that," Olva answered him sternly, "until you +have given me your reasons. I don't know that she cares a pin about +me--I don't suppose that she does. But she will. I'm going to do my very +best to marry her." + +Craven broke away to the middle of the room. His body was shaking with +passion and he flung out his hand as though to ward off Olva from him. + +"You to marry my sister! My God, I will prevent it--I will tell her--" +He caught himself up suddenly. + +"What will you tell her?" + +Then Craven collapsed. He stood there, rocking on his feet, his hands +covering his face. + +"It's all too awful," he moaned. "It's all too awful." + +For a wonderful moment Olva felt that he was about to tell Craven +everything. A flood of words rose to his lips--he seemed, for an +instant, to be rising with a great joyous freedom, as did Christian when +he had dropped his burden, to a new honesty, a high deliverance. + +Then he remembered Margaret Craven. + +"You take my advice, Craven, and get your nerves straight. They're in a +shocking condition." + +Craven went to the door and turned. + +"You can tell nothing?" + +"Nothing." + +"I will never rest until I know who murdered Carfax." + +He closed the door behind him and was gone. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +FIFTH OF NOVEMBER + +1 + +That attempt to make Craven speak his mind was Olva's last plunge into +the open. He saw now, with a clarity that was like the sudden lifting of +some blind before a lighted window, that he had been beguiled, betrayed. +He had thought that his confession to Bunning would stay the pursuit. He +saw now that it was the Pursuer Himself who had instigated it. With that +confession the grey shadow had drawn nearer, had made one degree more +certain the ultimate capitulation. + +For Bunning was surely the last person to be told--with every hour that +became clearer. There were now about four weeks before the end of term. +The Dublin match was to be on the first Tuesday of December, two days +before every one went down, and between the two dates--this 5th of +November and that 2nd of December--the position must be held. . . . + +The terror of the irresistible impulse now never left Olva. He had told +Bunning in a moment of uncontrol--what might he not do now at any time? +At one instant to be absolutely silent seemed the only resource, at the +next to rush out and take part in all the life about him. Were he silent +he was tortured by the silence, if he flung himself amongst his fellow +men every hour threatened self-betrayal. + +What, moreover, was happening in the house in Rocket Road? Craven was +only waiting for certainty and at any moment some chance might give him +what he needed. What did Mrs. Craven know? + +Margaret . . . Margaret . . . Margaret---Olva took the thought of +her in his hand and held it like a sword, against the forces that were +crowding in upon him. + +The afternoon of November 5 was thick with fog so that the shops were +lighted early and every room was dim and unreal, and a sulphurous smell +weighted the air. After "Hall" Olva came back to his room and found +Bunning, his white face peering out of the foggy mist like a dull moon +from clouds, waiting for him. All day there had hung about Olva heavy +depression. It had seemed so ugly and sinister a world--the fog had been +crowded with faces and terror, and the dreadful overpowering impression +of unreality that had been increasing with every day now took from +his companions all life and made of them grinning masks. He remembered +Margaret's cry, "It is like walking in a dream," and echoed it. Surely +it _was_ a dream! He would wake one happy morning and find that he had +invited Craven and Carfax to breakfast, and he would hear them, whilst +he dressed, talking together in the outer room, and, later, he would +pass Bunning in the Court without knowing him. He would be introduced +one day to Margaret Craven and find the house in which she lived a +charming comfortable place, full of light and air, with a croquet lawn +at the back of it, and Mrs. Craven, a nice ordinary middle-aged woman, +stout possibly and fond of gossip. And instead of being President of the +Wolves and a person of importance in the College he would be once again +his old self, knowing nobody, scornful of the whole world and of the +next world as well. And this brought him up with a terrible awakening. +No, that old reality could never be real again, for that old reality +meant a world without God. God had come and had turned the world into +a nightmare . . . or was it only his rebellion against God that had so +made it? But the nightmare was there, the awful uncertainty of every +word, of every step, because with the slightest movement he might +provoke the shadow to new action, if anything so grave, so stern, so +silent as that Pursuit could be termed action, and . . . it was odd how +certainly he knew it . . . so kind. Bunning's face brought him to the +sudden necessity of treating the nightmare as reality, for the moment at +any rate. The staring spectacles piteously appealed to him-- + +"I can't stand it--I can't stand it." + +"Hush!" Olva held his hand, and out of the fog, below in the Court, a +voice was calling--"Craven! Craven! Buck up, you old ass!" + +"They're going to light bonfires and things," Bunning quavered, and +then, with a hand that had always before seemed soft and flabby but +that was now hard and burning, he caught Olva's wrist. "I had to see +you--I've been three days now--waiting--all the time for them to come +and arrest you. Oh! I've imagined everything--everything--and the fog +makes it worse. . . . Oh! my God! I can't stand it." + +The man was on the edge of hysteria. His senseless giggle threatened +that in another instant it would be beyond all control. There was no +time to be lost. Olva took him by the shoulders, held him firmly and +looked straight into the weak, quivering eyes that were behind the +glasses like fish in a tank. + +"Look here, Bunning. Pull yourself together. You _must_--you _must_. +Do you understand? If you've never done it before you must do it now. +Remember that you wanted to help me. Well, now you can do it--but +remember that if you give way so that people notice you, then the show's +up. They'll be asking questions--they'll watch you--and you'll have +done for me. Otherwise there's no risk whatever--no risk whatever. Just +remember that--it's as though I'd never done anything; everything's +going on in its usual way; life will always be just the same . . . if +you'll keep hold of yourself--do you understand? Do you hear me?" + +Bunning's quavering voice answered him, "I'll try." + +"Well, look here. Think of it quite calmly, naturally. You're taking +it like a story that you'd read in a magazine or a play you'd seen at a +theatre--melodrama with all the lights on and every one screaming. Well, +it can be like that if you want it. Every one thinks of murder that way +and you can go shrieking to the Dean and have the rope round my neck in +a minute. But I want you to think of it as the most ordinary thing +in the world. Remember no one knows but yourself, and they won't know +either if you behave in a natural sort of way." Then suddenly his voice +sank to a growl and he caught the man's hands in his and held the whole +quivering body in his control--"Quiet!" he muttered, "Quiet!" + +Bunning had begun to laugh--quite helplessly, almost noiselessly--only +his fat cheeks were quivering and his mouth foolishly, weakly smiling: +his eyes seemed to be disconnected from his body and to be protesting +against it. They looked out like a prisoner from behind barred windows. +The body began to shake from head to foot-ripples of noiseless laughter +shook his fat limbs, then suddenly he began . . . peal upon peal. . . +the tears came rolling down, the mouth was loosely trembling, and still +only the eyes, in a kind of sad, stupid wonder, protested. + +Olva seized his throat-"Stop it, you damned fool!" . . . He looked +straight into the eyes--Bunning ceased as suddenly as he had begun. The +horrible, helpless noise fell with a giggle into silence; he collapsed +into a chair and hid his face in his hands. + +There was a long pause. Olva gazed at the bending figure, summoning all +his will power to hold the shaking thing in control. He waited. Then, +softly, he began again. "Bunning, I did you a great wrong when I told +you--you're not up to it." + +From behind the hands there came a muffled voice--"I _am_ up to it." + +"This sort of thing makes it impossible." + +"It shall never happen again." Bunning lifted his tear-stained face. +"It's been coming for days. I've been so dreadfully frightened. But +now--that I've been with you--it's better, much better. If only--" and +his voice caught--"if only--no one suspects." + +Olva gravely answered, "No one suspects." + +"If I thought that any one--that there was any chance--that any one had +an idea. . . ." + +Craven's voice was echoing in Olva's ears. He answered again-- + +"No one has the slightest suspicion." + +Bunning got up heavily from the chair--"I shall be better now. It's been +so awful having a secret. I never could keep one. I always used to do +wrong things at home and then tell them and then get punished. But I +will try. But if I thought that they guessed--" There was a rap on the +door and Bunning gasped, stepped back against the wall, his face white, +his knees trembling. + +"Don't be such a fool," Olva said fiercely. "If you're like that every +time any one knocks you may as well chuck it at once. Look sensible, +man. Pull yourself together." + +Lawrence entered, bringing log with him from the stairs. His big, +thick-set body was so reassuring, so healthy in its sturdiness, so +strange a contrast to the trembling figure against the wall that Olva +felt an immense relief. + +"You know Bunning, Lawrence?" + +"How do?" + +Lawrence gripped Bunning's fingers, nodded to Bunning's stumbling words +and smiled genially. + +Bunning got to the door, blinked upon them both from behind his glasses +and was gone--muttering something about "work . . . letters to write." + +"Rum feller," said Lawrence, and dismissed him with a chuckle. +"Shouldn't ever have thought him your style, Dune . . . but you're a +clever feller and clever fellers always see more in stupid fellers than +ordinary fellers do . . . come out and see the rag." + +"Rag! What rag?" + +"It's November 5th." + +So it was. In the air already perhaps there were those mysterious +signs and portents that heralded riot--nothing, as yet, for the casual +observer to notice, nothing but a few undergraduates arm-in-arm pacing +the sleepy streets--a policeman here, a policeman there. Every now and +again clocks strike the quarters, and in many common-rooms heads are +nodding over ancient Port and argument of the gentlest kind is being +tossed to and fro. But, nevertheless, we remember other Fifths of +November. There was that occasion in '98, that other more distant time +in '93. . . . There was that furious battle in the Market Place when the +Town Hall was nearly set on fire and a policeman had his arm broken. + +These are historic occasions; on the other hand the fateful date has +passed, often enough, without the merest flinging of a squib or friendly +appropriation of the genial policeman's helmet. + +No one can say, no one knows, whether there will be riot to-night or no. +Most of the young gentlemen now parading the K.P. and Petty Cury would +undoubtedly prefer that there should be a riot. For one thing there has +been no riot during the last five or six years--no one "up" just now +has had any experience of such a thing, and it would be beyond question +delightful to taste the excitement of it. But, on the other hand, there +is all the difficulty of getting under way. One cannot possibly enjoy +the occasion until one has reached that delightful point when one has +lost all sense of risk, when recklessly we pile the bonfire, snap our +fingers in the nose of poor Mr. Gregg who is terrific enough when he +marches solemnly into Chapel but is nothing at all when he is screaming +with shrill anger amongst the lights and fury of the blazing common. + +Will this wonderful moment when discipline, respect for authority, +thoughts of home, terrors of being sent down, all these bogies, are +flung derisively to the winds arrive to-night? It has struck nine, and +to Olva and Lawrence, walking solemnly through the market-place, it all +seems quiet enough. + +But behold how the gods work their will! It so happens that Giles of St +Martin's has occasion, on this very day, to celebrate his twenty-first +birthday. It has been done as a twenty-first birthday should be done, +and by nine o'clock the company, twenty in number, have decided that +"it was the ruddiest of ruddy old worlds"--that--"let's have +some moretodrink ol' man--it was Fifth o' November--and that a +ruddyoldbonfire would be--a--ruddyol'-joke---" + +Now, at half-past nine, the company of twenty march singing down the +K.P. and gather unto themselves others--a murmur is spreading through +the byways. "Bonfire on the Common." "Bonfire on the Common." The +streets begin to be black with undergraduates. + + +2 + +Olva was conscious as he passed with Lawrence through the now crowded +streets that Bunning's hysteria had had an effect upon his nerves. He +could not define it more directly than by saying that the Shadow +that had, during these many weeks, appeared to be pursuing him, at a +distance, now seemed to be actually with him. It was as though three of +them, and not two, were walking there side by side. It was as though he +were himself whispering in his own ear some advice of urgent pleading +that he was himself rejecting . . . he was even weighted with the sense +of some enlarged growth, of having in fact to carry more, physically +as well as spiritually, than he had ever carried before. Now it quite +definitely and audibly pleaded-- + +"Submit--submit--submit. . . . See the tangle that you are getting +yourself into. See the trouble that you are getting others into. See +the tangle and muddle that you are making of it all. . . . Submit. . . . +Give in. . . . You're beaten." + +But he was not beaten. Neither the love of Margaret, nor the suspicions +of Rupert, nor the hysteria of Bunning had as yet defeated him . . . and +even as he resisted it was as though he were fighting himself. + +Sidney Street was now quite black with thronging undergraduates moving +towards the Common. There was very little noise in it all; every now +and again some voice would call aloud to some other voice and would be +answered back; a murmur like the swelling of some stream, unlike, in its +uniformity and curious evenness of note, any human conversation, seemed +to cling to the old grey walls. All of it at present orderly enough but +with sinister omen in its very quiet. + +Olva felt an increasing excitement as he moved. It was an excitement +that had some basis in the stir that was about him, in the murmur like +bees of the crowd, in the soft stirring of grey branches above the walls +of the street against the night sky, in the golden lights that, set in +dim towers, shone high up above their heads. In all these things there +was a mysterious tremor that beat, with the rhythm of a pulse, from the +town's very heart--but there was more than that in his excitement. There +was working in him a conviction that he was now, even now, reaching the +very climax of his adventure. Very certainly, very surely, the moment +was thawing near, and even in the instant when he had, that very +evening, left his rooms, he had stepped, he instinctively knew, out of +one stage into another. + +"Where are we going?" he asked Lawrence. + +"Common. There's goin' to be an old fire. Hope there's a row--don't mind +who I hit." + +The side streets that led to the Common made progress more difficult, +and, with the increased difficulty, came also a more riotous spirit. +Some one started "The Two Obadiahs," and it was lustily sung with a +good deal of repetition; several people had wooden rattles, intended +to encourage College boats during the races, but very useful just now. +There were, at the point where the street plunges into the Common, some +wooden turnstiles, and these of course were immensely in the way and men +were flung about and there was a good deal of coarse pleasantry, and +one mild freshman, who had been caught into the crowd by accident, was +thrown on to the ground and very nearly trodden to death. + +The sight of the vast and mysterious Common put every one into the best +of spirits. There was room here to do anything, and it was also dark +enough and wide enough to escape if escape were advisable. Moreover +the space of it seemed so limitless that it negatived any one's +responsibility. A sudden delightful activity swept over the world, and +it was immediately every one's business to get wood from anywhere at +all and drag it into the middle of the Common. As they moved through the +turnstiles Olva fancied that he caught sight of Craven. + +On the Common's edge, with bright little lights in their windows, were +perched a number of tiny houses with strips of garden in front of them. +These little eyes watched, apprehensively no doubt, the shadowy mass +that hovered under the night sky. They did not like this kind of thing, +these little houses--they remembered five or six years ago when +their cabbages had been trampled upon, their palings torn down, even +hand-to-hand contests in the passages and one roof on fire. Where were +the police? The little eyes watched anxiously. There was no sign of the +police. . . . + +Olva smiled at himself for the excitement that he was feeling. He was +standing at present with Lawrence on the edge of the Common, watching, +but he was feeling irresistibly drawn towards the dark pile of wood that +was rising slowly towards the sky. + +"As though one were ten years old"--and yet there was Lawrence +murmuring, "I'd awfully like to hit somebody." And that, after all, +was what it all came to. Perhaps Olva, if there were really to be some +"scraps," would be able to work off some of his apprehension, of his +breathlessness. Oh! for one wild ten minutes when scruples were flung +to the winds, when there was at last in front of one an enemy whom one +could touch, whom one could fling, physically, brutally, down before +one! + +"The worst of it is," Lawrence was saying, "there are these town +cads--they'll be in the back somewhere shoutin' ''It 'im, 'Varsity,' +or somethin' and then runnin' for their lives if they see a Robert +comin' . . . it's rotten bein', mixed up with such muck . . . anyhow I'm +goin' to have a dash at it----" and he had suddenly plunged forward into +space. + +Olva was alone. A breeze blew across the Common, the stars twinkled and +jumped as though they were suffering from a nervous attack, and with +every moment restraint was flung a farther distance, more voices called +aloud and shouted, more men poured out of the little side streets. It +had the elements of a great mystery. It was as though Mother Earth had, +with a heave of her breast, tossed these shadowy forms into the air and +was herself stirring with the emotion of their movement. + +There was an instant's breathless silence; to the roar of a shouting +multitude a bright hard flame shot like steel into the air--the bonfire +was alight. + +Now with every moment it mounted higher. Black pigmy figures were +now dancing round it and across the Common other figures were always +passing, dragging wood with them. The row of palings towards the river +had gone and soon those little cottages that lined the grass must +suffer. Surely now the whole of the University was gathered there! +The crowd was close now, dense--men shoved past one another crying out +excited cries, waving their arms with strange meaningless gestures. They +were arriving rapidly at that condition when they had neither names nor +addresses but merely impulses. + +Most dangerous element of all threatened that ring of loafers on the +outskirts--loafers from the town. Here in this "mob of excited boys" was +opportunity for them of getting something back on that authority that +had so often treated them with ignominy. . . . Their duty to shout +approval, to insult at a distance, to run for their lives were their +dirty bodies in any danger . . . but always to fan the flame---"Good +old--Varsity--Let them have it, the dirty--" "Pull their shirts off--" + +Screams, laughter, shouting, wild dancing--let the Dons come now and see +what they can make of it! + +"Bulldogs!" sounded a voice in Olva's ear, and turning round he beheld +a breathless, dishevelled Bunning. "I've been pulling wood off the +palings. Ha! hoch! he! (such noises to recover his breath). _Such_ a +rag!"--and then more apprehensively, "Bulldogs! There they are, with +Metcher!" They stood, two big men in top-hats, plainly to be seen behind +a Don in cap and gown, upon a little hill to the right of the bonfire. +The flames lit their figures. Metcher, the Don, was reading something +from a paper, and, round the hill, derisively dancing, were many +undergraduates. Apparently the Proctor found the situation too difficult +for him and presently he disappeared. Bunning watched him, apprehension +and a sense of order struggling' with a desire for adventure. "They've +gone to fetch the police. There'll be an awful row." + +There probably would be because that moment had at last been reached +when authority was flung absolutely to the winds of heaven. The world +seemed, in a moment, to have gone mad. Take Bunning, his cheeks +flushed, his body shaking, his eyes flaming, for an example. Olva, dark, +motionless in his shadow, watched it all and waited for his moment. He +knew that it was coming. Grimly he addressed the Shadow, now close to +his very heart. "I know you. You are urging me on. This night is your +business. . . . But I am fighting you still! I am fighting you still!" + +The moment came. Bunning, clutching on to Olva's sleeve, whispered, "The +police! Even at that crisis of intensest excitement he could be seen, +nervously, pushing his spectacles up his nose. A surging crowd of men, +and Olva again fancied that he caught sight of Craven, swept towards +the row of timid twinkling lights with their neat little gardens like +trembling protests laid out before them. More wood! more wood! to +appease that great flaming monster that shot tongues of fire now to the +very heavens. More wood! more wood!" + +"Look out, the police!" + +They came, with their truncheons, in a line down the Common. Olva was +flung into the heart of a heaving mass of legs and arms. He caught a +glimpse of Bunning behind and he thought that he saw Craven a little to +his right. He did not know--he did not care. His blood was up at last. +He was shouting he knew not what, he was hitting out with his fists. +Men's voices about him--"Let go, you beast." "My God, I'll finish you." +"There goes a bobby." "Stamp on him!" + +A disgraceful scene. The policemen were hopelessly outnumbered. The +crowd broke on to the line of orderly little gardens, water was +poured from windows, the palings were flung to the ground--glass +broken--screams of women somewhere in the distance. + +But even now Olva knew that his moment had not come. Then some one +shouted in his ear--"Town cads! They're murdering a bobby!" He was +caught with several other men (of their number was Bunning) off the +Common up a side street. + +A blazing lamp showed him an angry, shouting, jeering crowd; figures +closed round something on the ground. Four men had joined arms with him, +and now the five of them, shouting "'Varsity!" hitting right and left, +rushed into the circle. The circle broke and Olva saw lying his length +on the ground, half-stunned, clothed only in a torn shirt of bright +blue, a stout heavy figure--once obviously, from the clothes flung to +one side, a policeman, now with his large red face in a muddy puddle, +his fat naked legs bent beneath him, his fingers clutching dirt, nothing +very human at all. Town cads of the worst! Some brute now was raising +his foot and kicking the bare flesh! + +Instantly the world was on flame for Olva. Now again, as once in Sannet +Wood, he must hit and hit with all his soul. He broke, like a madman, +into the heart of the crowd, sending it flying. There were cries and +screams. + +He was conscious of three faces. There was Bunning there, white, +staring. There was Craven, with his back to a house-door, staring +also--and directly before him was a purple face with muddy hair fringing +it and little beady eyes. The face of the brute who had been kicking! He +must hit. He struck and his fist broke the flesh! He was exultant . . . +at last he had, after these weeks of intangibility, found something +solid. The face broke away from him. The circle scattered back and the +fat, naked body was lying in the mud alone. There was a sudden silence. +Olva, conscious of a great power surging through his body, raised his +hand again. + +A voice, shrill, terror in it, screamed, "Look out, man, he'll kill +you!" + +He turned and saw under the lamplight Craven, his eyes blazing, his +finger pointed. He was suddenly cold from head to foot. The voice came, +it had seemed, from heaven. Craven's eyes were alive now with certainty. +Then there was another cry from somewhere of "The police!" and the crowd +had melted. In the little street now there were only the body of the +policeman and a handful of undergraduates. + +They raised the man, poured water over him, found some of his clothes, +and two men led him, his head lolling, down the street. + +There was a noisy world somewhere in the distance, but here there was +silence. Olva crept slowly out of his exultation and found himself in +the cold windy street with Bunning for his only companion. + +Bunning--now a torn, dirty, bleeding Bunning--gripped his arm. + +"Did you hear?" + +"Hear what?" + +"Craven--when you were fighting there--Craven was watching . . . I saw +it all . . . Craven suspects." + +Olva met the frightened eyes--"He does not suspect." + +"Didn't you hear? He called out to the cad you were going for. . . ." +Then, in a kind of whimper, dismal enough in the dreary little +street--"He'll find out--Craven--I know he will. . . . Oh! my God! what +_shall_ I do!" + +Some one had broken the glass of the street lamp and the gas flared +above them, noisily. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +LOVE TO THE "VALSE TRISTE" + +1 + +It was all, when one looked back upon it, the rankest melodrama. The +darkness, the flaming lamp, Craven's voice and eyes, Bunning . . . +it had all arranged itself as though it bad been worked by a master +dramatist. At any rate there they now were, the three of them--Olva, +Bunning, Craven--placed in a situation that could not possibly stay +as it was. In which direction was it going to develop? Bunning had no +control at all, it would be he who would supply the next move . . . +meanwhile in the back of Olva's mind there was that banging sense of +urgency, no time to be lost. He must see Margaret and speak before +Rupert spoke to her. Perhaps, even now, Craven was not certain. If he +only knew of how much Craven was sure! Did he feel sure enough to speak +to Margaret? + +Meanwhile the first and most obvious thing was that Bunning was in a +state of terror that threatened instant exposure. The man was evidently +realizing that now, for the first time, he had a big thing with which he +must grapple. He must grapple with his devotion to Olva, with his terror +of Craven, but, most of all, with his terror of himself. That last was +obviously the thing that tortured him, for, having now been given by the +High Gods an opportunity of great service, so miserable a creature did +he consider himself that he would not for an instant trust his control. +He was trying, Olva saw, with an effort that in its intensity was +pathetic to prove himself worthy of the chance that had been offered +him, as though it were the one sole opportunity that he would ever be +given, but to appear to the world something that he was not was an art +that Bunning and his kind could never acquire--that is their tragedy. +It was the fate of Bunning that his boots and spectacles should always +negative any attempt that he might make at a striking personality. + +On the night after the "Rag" he sat in Olva's room and made a supreme +effort at control. + +"If you can only hold on," Olva told him, "to the end of term. It's only +a week or two now. Just stick it until then; you won't be bothered with +me after that." + +"You're going away?" + +"I don't know--it depends." + +"I don't know what I should do if you went. To have to stand that awful +secret all alone . . . only me knowing. Oh! I couldn't! I couldn't! and +now that Craven--" + +"Craven knows nothing. He doesn't even suspect anything. See here, +Bunning"--Olva crossed over to him and put his hand on his shoulder. +"Can't you understand that your behaviour makes me wish that I hadn't +told you, whereas if you care as you say you do you ought to want to +show me how you can carry it, to prove to me that I was right to tell +you---" + +"Yes, I know. But Craven---" + +"Craven knows nothing." + +"But he does." Bunning's voice became shrill and his fat hand shook on +Olva's arm. "There's something I haven't told you. This morning in Outer +Court he stopped me." + +"Craven stopped you?" + +"Yes. There was no one about. I was going along to my rooms and he met +me and he said: 'Hullo, Bunning.'" + +"Well?" + +"I'd been thinking of it--of his knowing, I mean--all night, so I was +dreadfully startled, dreadfully startled. I'm afraid I showed it." + +"Get on. What did he say?" + +"He said: 'Hullo, Bunning!'" + +"Yes, you've told me that. What else?" + +"I said 'Hullo!' I was dreadfully startled. I don't think he'd ever +spoken to me before. And then he looked so strange--wild, as though he +hadn't slept, and white, and his eyes moved all the time. I'm afraid he +saw that I was startled." + +"Do get on. What else did he ask you?" + +"He asked me whether I'd enjoyed last night. He said: 'You were with +Dune, weren't you?' He cried, as though he wasn't speaking to me at all: +'That's an odd sort of friend for you to have.' I ought to have been +angry I suppose, but I was shaking all over . . . yes . . . well . . . +then he said: 'I thought you were in with all those pi men,' and I just +couldn't say anything at all--I was shaking so. He must have thought I +looked very odd." + +"I'm sure he did," said Olva drily. "Well it won't be many days before +_you_ give the show away--_that's_ certain." + +What could have made him tell the fellow? What madness? What---? + +But Bunning caught on to his sleeve. + +"No, no, you mustn't say that, Dune, please, you mustn't. I'm going to +do my best, I am really. But his coming suddenly like that, just when +I'd been thinking. . . . But it's awful. I told you if any one suspected +it would make it so hard---" + +"Look here, Bunning, perhaps it will help you if you know the way that +I'm feeling about it. I'll try and explain. All these days there's +something in me that's urging me to go out and confess." + +"Conscience," said Bunning solemnly. + +"No, it isn't conscience at all. It's something quite different, because +the thing that's urging me isn't urging me because I've done something +I'm ashamed of, it's urging me because I'm in a false position. There's +that on the one side, and, on the other, I'm in love with Rupert +Craven's sister." + +Bunning gave a little cry. + +"Yes. That complicates things, doesn't it? Now you see why Rupert Craven +is the last person who must know anything about it; it's because he +loves his sister so much and suspects, I think, that I care for her, +that he's going to find out the truth." + +"Does she care for you?" Bunning brought out huskily. + +"I don't know. That's what I've got to find out." + +"Because it all depends on that. If she cares enough it won't matter +what you've done, and if she doesn't care enough it won't matter her +knowing because you oughtn't to marry her. Oh," and Bunning's eyes +as they gazed at Olva were those, once more, of a devoted dog: "she's +lucky." Then he repeated, as though to himself, in his odd husky +whisper: "Anything that I can do . . . anything that I can do . . ." + + +2 + +On the next evening, about five o'clock, Olva went to the house in +Rocket Road. He went through a world that, in its frosty stillness, +held beauty in its hands like a china cup, so fragile in its colours, so +gentle in its outline, with a moon, round and of a creamy white, with a +sky faintly red, and stiff trees, black and sharp. + +Cambridge came to Olva then as a very lovely thing. The Cambridge life +was a lovely thing with its kindness, its simplicity, its optimism. He +was penetrated too with a great sadness because he knew that life of +that kind was gone, once and for ever, from him; whatever came to him +now it could never again be that peace; the long houses flung black +shadows across the white road and God kept him company. . . . + +Miss Margaret Craven had not yet come in, but would Mr. Dune, perhaps, +go up and see Mrs. Craven? The old woman's teeth chattered in the cold +little hall. "We are dead, all of us dead here," the skins on the walls +seemed to say; "and you'll be dead soon . . . oh! yes, you will." + +Olva went up to Mrs. Craven. The windows of her room were tightly closed +and a great fire was blazing; before this she lay stretched out on a +sofa of faded green--her black dress, her motionless white hands, her +pale face, her moving eyes. + +She had beside her to-day a little plate of dry biscuits, and, now and +again, her hand would move across her black dress and break one of these +with a sharp sound, and then her hand would fall back again. + +"I am very glad to see you. Draw your chair to the fire. It is a chill +day, but fine, I believe." + +She regarded him gravely. + +"It is not much of life that I can watch from this room, Mr. Dune. It is +good of you to come and see me . . . there must be many other things for +you to do." + +He came at once to the point. + +"I want your permission to ask your daughter to marry me, Mrs. Craven." + +There was a long silence between them. He seemed, in his inner +consciousness, to be carrying on a dialogue. + +"You see," he said to the Shadow, "I have forestalled you. I shall ask +Margaret Craven this evening to marry me. You cannot prevent that . . . +you _cannot_." + +And a voice answered: "All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me." + +"You have known us a very short time, Mr. Dune." Mrs. Craven's voice +came to him from a great distance. + +He felt as though he were speaking to two persons. "Time has nothing to +do with falling in love, Mrs. Craven." + +He saw to his intense amazement that she was greatly moved. She, who +had always seemed to him a mask, now was suddenly revealed as suffering, +tortured, intensely human. Her thin white hands were pressed together. + +"I am a lonely, unhappy woman, Mr. Dune. Margaret is now all that is +left to me. Everything has been taken from me. Rupert--" Her voice +was lost; very slowly tears rolled down her cheeks. She began again +desperately. "Margaret is all that I have got. If I were left alone it +would be too much for me. I could not endure the silence." + +It was the more moving in that it followed such stern reserve. His own +isolation, the curious sense that he had that they were, both of them, +needing protection against the same power (it seemed to him that if he +raised his eyes he would see, on the opposite wall, the shadow of +that third Presence); this filled him with the tenderest pity, so that +suddenly he bent down and kissed her hand. + +She caught his with a fierce convulsive movement, and so they sat in +silence whilst he felt the pulse of her hand beat through his body, and +once a tear rolled from her cheek on to his wrist. + +"You understand . . ." she said at last. "You understand. I have always +seen that you know. . ." Then she whispered, "How did you know?" + +"Know?" He was bewildered, but before she could speak again the door +opened and Margaret Craven came in. + +She moved with that restrained emotion that he had seen in her when he +had first met her. She was some great force held in check, some fire +that blazed but must be hidden from the world, and as she bent over +her mother and kissed her the embrace had in it something of passionate +protest; both women seemed to assert in it their right to quite another +sort of life. + +He saw that his moment with Mrs. Craven had passed. That fire, that +humanity had gone from her and she lay back now on her sofa with the +faint waxen lids closed upon her eyes, her hands thinly folded, almost a +dead woman. + +Margaret kissed her again--now softly and gently, and Olva went with her +from the room. + + +3 + +He was prepared to find that Rupert had told her everything. He thought +that he saw in the gravity and sadness of her manner, and also in the +silence that she seemed deliberately at first to place between them, +that she was waiting for the right moment to break it to him. He felt +that she would ask him gravely and with great kindness, but that, in the +answer that he would give her, it must be all over . . . the end. The +pursuit would be concluded. + +Then suddenly in the way that she looked at him he knew that she had +been told nothing. + +"I'm afraid that mother is very unwell. I'm afraid that you must have +found her so." + +"If she could get away---" he began. + +"Ah! if we could all get away! If only we could! But we have talked of +that before. It is quite impossible. And, even if we could (and how glad +I should be!), I do not know that it would help mother. It is Rupert +that is breaking her heart!" + +"Rupert!" + +For answer to his exclamation she cried to him with all the pent-up +suffering and loneliness of the last weeks in her voice-- + +"Ah, Mr. Dune, help me! I shall go mad if something doesn't happen; +every day it is worse and I can't grapple with it. I'm not up to it. +If only they'd speak out! but it's this silence!" She seemed to pull +herself together and went on more quietly: "You know that Rupert and I +have been everything to one another all our lives. We have never had +a secret of any kind. Until this last month Rupert was the most open, +dearest boy in the world. His tenderness with my mother was a most +wonderful thing, and to me!--I cannot tell you what he was to me. I +suppose, for the very reason that we were so much to one another, we +did not make any other very close friends. I had girls in Dresden, of +course, and there were men at school and college for whom he cared, +but I think there can have been few brothers and sisters who were so +entirely together in every way. A month ago that all ceased." + +She flung her head back with a sharp defiant movement as though the +memory of it hurt her. + +"I've told you this before. I talked to you about it when you were +here last. But since then he has become much worse and I am afraid that +anything may happen. I have no one to go to. It is killing my mother, +and then--you were a friend of his." + +"I hope that I am now." + +"That is the horrible part of it. But it seems now that all this +agitation, this trouble, is directed against you." + +"Against me" + +"Yes, the other evening he spoke about you--here--furiously. He said +you must never come here again, that I must never speak to you again. +He said that you had done dreadful things. And then when I asked him he +could not tell me anything. He seemed--and you must look on it in that +light, Mr. Dune--as though he were not in the least responsible for what +he said. I'm afraid he is very, very ill. He is dreadfully unhappy, and +yet he can explain nothing. I too have been very unhappy, and mother, +because we love him." + +"If he wishes that I should not come here again---" Olva began. + +"But he is not responsible. He really does not know what he is doing. +He never had the smallest trouble that he did not confide it to me, and +now---" + +"I have noticed, of course," Olva said "that lately his manner to me has +been strange. I would have helped him if he would let me, but he will +not. He will have nothing to say to me . . . I too have been very sorry +about it. I have been sorry because I am fond of Rupert, but also--there +is another, stronger reason--because I love you, Margaret." + +As he spoke he got up and stood by her chair. He saw her take in his +last words, at first with a wondering gravity, then with a sudden +splendour so that light flooded her face; her arms made a little +helpless gesture, and she caught his hand. + +He drew her up to him out of her chair; then, with a fierce passionate +movement, they held one another and clung together as though in a +desperate wild protest against the world. + +"You can't touch me now--I've got her," he seemed to fling at the blank +face of the old mirror. + +It was his act of defiance, but through his exultation he caught the +whisper--it might again have been conveyed to him through the shrill +shivering notes of the "Valse Triste"--"Tell her--tell her--now. Trust +her. Dear son, trust Me . . . it must be so in the end." + +"Now," he heard her say, "I can stand it all." + +"When you came into this room weeks ago," she went on, "I loved you; +from the very first instant. Now I do not mind what any one can do." + +"I too loved you from the first instant." + +"You were so grave. I tried at first not to think of you as a person at +all because I thought that it was safer, and then gradually, although I +fought against you, I could not keep you out. You drove your way in. You +understood so wonderfully the things that I wanted you to understand. +Then Rupert and mother drove me to want you more and more. I thought +that you liked me, but I didn't know. . . ." Then with a little shiver +she clung to him, pressing close to him. "Oh! hold me, hold me safe." + +The room was now gathering to itself that dusk that gave it its +strangest air. The fire had fallen low and only shone now in the +recesses of the high fireplace with a dull glimmer. Amongst the shadows +it seemed that the Presence was gravely waiting. As Olva held Margaret +in his arms he felt that he was fighting to keep her. + +In the dark hollow of the mirror he thought that he saw the long white +road, the mists, the little wood and some one running. . . . + +It seemed to him that Margaret was not there, that the room was dark and +very heavy, that some bell was ringing in his ear. . . . Then about +him a thousand voices were murmuring: "Tell her--tell her--tell her the +truth." + +With a last effort he tried to cry "I will not tell her." + +His lips broke on her name "Margaret." Then, with a little sigh, +tumbling forward, he fainted. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +MRS. CRAVEN + +1 + +Afterwards, lying in his easy chair before his fire, he was allowed a +brief and beautiful respite. It was almost as though he were already +dead--as though, consciously, he might lie there, apart from the world, +freed from the eternal pursuit, at last unharassed, and hold, with both +hands, that glorious certainty--Margaret. + +He had a picture of her now. He was lying where he had tumbled, there on +the floor with the silver trays and boxes, the odd tables, the gimcrack +chairs all about him. Slowly he had opened his eyes and had gazed, +instantly, as though the gates of heaven had rolled back for him, into +her face. She was kneeling on the floor, one hand was behind his head, +the other bathed his forehead. He could see her breasts (so little, so +gentle) rise and fall beneath her thin dress, and her great dark eyes +caught his soul and held it. + +In that one great moment God withdrew. For the first time in his +knowledge of her they were alone, and in the kiss that he gave to her +when he drew her down to him they met for the first time. Death and the +anger of God might come to him--that great moment could never be taken +from him. It was his. . . . + +He had seen that she was gravely distressed with his fainting, and he +had been able to give her no reason beyond the heat of the room. He +could see that she was puzzled and felt that there was some mystery +there that she was not to know, but she too had found in that last kiss +a glorious certainty that no other hazard could possibly destroy. + +He loved her--she loved him. Let the Gods thunder! + +But he knew, nevertheless, as he lay back there in the chair, that he +had received a sign. That primrose path with Margaret was not to be +allowed him, and so sure was he that now he could lie back and look at +it all as though he were a spectator and wonder in what way God +intended to work it out. The other side of him--the fighting, battling +creature--was, for the moment, dormant. Soon Bunning would come in +and then the fight would begin again, but for the instant there was +peace--the first peace that he had known since that far-away evening in +St. Martin's Chapel. + +As with a drowning man (it is said) so now with Olva his past life +stretched, in panorama, before him. He saw the high rocky grey building +with its rough shape and shaggy lichen, its neglected courtyard, its +iron-barred windows, the gaunt trees, like witches, that hemmed it, the +white ribbon of road, far, far below it, the shining gleam of the river +hidden by purple hills. He saw his father--huge, flowing grey beard, +eyebrows stuck, like leeches, on to his weather-beaten face, his gnarled +and knotted hands. He saw himself a tiny boy with thin black hair and +grave eyes watching his father as he bathed in the mill-pool below the +house--his father rising naked from the stream, hung with the mists of +early morning, naked with enormous chest, huge flanks, his beard black +then and sweeping across his breast, his great thighs shining with the +dripping water--primitive, primeval, in the heart of the early morning +silence. + +Many, many other pictures of those first days, but always Olva and his +father, moving together, speaking but seldom, sitting before the fire in +the evenings, watching the blaze, despising the world. The contempt that +his father had for his fellow-beings! Had a man ever been so alone? Olva +himself had drunk of that same contempt and welcomed his solitude at +Harrow. The world had been with him a place of war, of hostility, until +he had struck that blow in Sannet Wood. He remembered the eagerness with +which, at the end of term, he had hastened back to his father. After the +noise and clatter of school life how wonderful to go back to the still +sound of dripping water, to the crackle of dry leaves under foot, to +the heavy solemn tread of cattle, to those evenings when at his father's +side he heard the coals click in the fire and the old clock on the +stairs wheeze out the passing minutes. That relationship with his father +bad been, until this term, the only emotion in his life--and now? And +now! + +It was incredible this change that had come to him. First there was +Margaret and then, after her, Mrs. Craven, Rupert, Lawrence, Cardillac, +Bunning. All these persons, in varying degree, bad become of concern to +him. The world that had always been a place of smoke, of wind, of sky, +was now, of a sudden, crowded with figures. He bad been swept from the +hill-top down into the market-place. He had been given perhaps one keen +glance of a moving world before he was drawn from it altogether. . . . +Now, just as he had tasted human companionship and loved it, must he +die? + +He knew, too, that his recent popularity in the College had pleased him. +He wanted them to like him . . . he was proud to feel that because he +was he therefore Cardillac resigned, willingly, his place to him. But if +Cardillac knew him for a felon, knew that he might be hanged in the +dark and flung into a nameless grave, what then? If Cardillac knew what +Rupert Craven almost knew, would not his horror be the same? The world, +did it only know. . . . + +To-morrow was the day of the Dublin match. Olva and Cardillac were both +playing, and at the end of the game choice might be made between them. +Did Olva care? He did not know . . . but Margaret was coming, and, in +the back of his mind, he wanted to show her what he could do. + +And yet, whilst that Shadow hovered in the Outer Court, how little a +thing this stir and movement was! No tumult that the material world +could ever make could sound like that whisper that was with him now +again in the room--with him at his very heart--"All things betray Thee. +. . ." + +The respite was over. Bunning came in. + +Change had seized Bunning. Here now was the result of his having pulled +himself together. Olva could see that the man bad made up his mind +to something, and that, further, he was resolved to keep his purpose +secret. It was probably the first occasion in Bunning's life of such +resolution. There was a faint colour in the fat cheeks, the eyes bad a +little light and the man scarcely spoke at all lest this purpose should +trickle from his careless lips. Also as he looked at Olva his customary +devotion was heightened by an air of frightened pride. + +Olva, watching him, was apprehensive--the devotion of a fool is the +most dangerous thing in creation. + +"Well, have you seen Craven again?" + +"Yes. We had a talk." + +"What did he say?" + +"Oh, nothing." + +"Rot. He didn't stop and talk to you about the weather. Come on, +Bunning, what have you been up to?" + +"I haven't been up to anything." + +The man's lips were closed. For another half an hour Bunning sat in a +chair before the fire--silent. Every now and again he flung a glance at +Olva. Sometimes he jerked his head towards the window as though he heard +a step. + +He had the look of a Christian going into the amphitheatre to face the +Beasts. + + +2 + +About eleven o'clock of the next morning Olva went to see Margaret. He +had written to her the night before and asked her not to tell Rupert +the news of their engagement immediately, but, when the morning came, he +could not rest with that. He must know more. + +It was a damp, misty morning, the fine frost had gone. He was going to +Margaret to try and recover some reality out of the state that he was +in. The recent incidents--Craven's suspicions, the 5th of November +evening, Bunning's alarm, the scene with Margaret--bad dragged him for +a time from that conviction that he was living in an unreal world. That +day when he had run in the snowstorm from Sannet Wood had seemed to him, +during these last weeks, absurd and an effect, obviously, of excited +nerves. Now, on this morning of the Dublin match, he awoke again to +that unreal condition. The bedmaker, the men passing through the Court +beneath his windows, the porter at the gate--these people were unreal, +and above him, around him, the mist seemed ever about to break into new +terrible presences. + +"This thing is wearing me down. I shall go off my head if something +definite doesn't happen"--and then, there in his room with the stupid +breakfast things still on the table, the consciousness of the presence +of God seized him so that he felt as though the pursuit were suddenly at +an end and there was nothing left now but complete submission. + +In this world of wraiths, God was the most certain Presence. . . . + +There remained only Margaret. Perhaps she could recover reality for him. +He went to her. + +He found her waiting for him in the little drawing-room and he could not +see her. He knew then that the Pursuing Shadow had taken a new step. It +was literally physically true. The room was there, the shining things, +the knick-knacks, the mirror, the scent of oranges. He could see her +body, her black dress, her eyes, her white neck, the movement towards +him that she made when she saw him coming, but there was nothing there. +It was as though he had been asked to love a picture. + +He could not think of her at all as Margaret Craven or of himself +as Olva Dune. Only in the glass's reflection he saw the white road +stretching to the wood. + +"I really am going off my head. She'll see that something's up"--and +then from the bottom of his heart, far away as though it had been the +cry of another person, "Oh! how I want her How I want her!" + +He took her in his arms and kissed her and felt as though he were dead +and she were dead and that they were both, being so young am eager for +life, struggling to get back existence again. + +Her voice came to him from a long distance "Olva, how ill you look! What +is it? What won't you tell me? There's something the matter with you all +and you all keep me in the dark." + +He said nothing and she went on very gently, "It would be so much +better, dear, if you were to tell me. After all, I'm part of you now, +aren't I? Perhaps I can help you." + +His own voice, from a long distance, said: "I don't think that you can +help me, Margaret." + +She put her hand on his arm and looked up into his face. "I am trying to +help you all, but it is so difficult if you will tell me nothing. And, +Olva dear, if it is something that you have done--something that you are +afraid to tell me--believe me, dear, that there's nothing--nothing in +the world--that you could have done that would matter to me now. I love +you--nothing can alter that." + +He tried to feel that the hand on his arm was real. With a great effort +he spoke: "Have you told Rupert?" + +"Mother told him last night." + +"What did he say?" + +"I don't know--but they had a terrible scene. Rupert," her lip quivered, +"went away without a word last night. Only he told mother that if I +would not give you up he would never come into the house again. But he +loves me more than any one in the world, and he can't do without me. I +know that he can't, and I know that he will come back. Mother wants to +see you; perhaps you will go up to her." + +She had moved back from him and was looking at him with sad perplexity. +He knew that he must seem strange and cold standing there, in the middle +of the room, without making any movement towards her, but he could not +help himself, he seemed to have no power over his own actions. + +Coming up to him she flung her arms round his neck. "Olva, Olva, tell +me, I can't endure it"--but slowly he detached himself from her and +left her. + +As he went through the dark close passage he wondered how God could be +so cruel. + +When he came into Mrs. Craven's room he knew that her presence comforted +him. The dark figure on the faded sofa by the fire seemed to him now +more real than anything else in the world. Although Mrs. Craven made +no movement yet he felt that she encouraged him come to her, that she +wanted him. The room was very dark and bare, and although a large fire +blazed in the hearth, it was cold. Beyond the window a misty world, +dank, with dripping trees, stretched to a dim horizon. Mrs. Craven did +not turn her eyes from the fire when she heard him enter. He felt as +though she were watching him and knew that he had drawn a chair beside +the sofa. Suddenly she moved her hand towards him and he took it and +held it for a moment. + +She turned and he saw that she had been crying. + +"I had a talk with my son last night," she said at last, and her voice +seemed to him the saddest thing that he had ever heard. "We had always +loved one another until lately. Last night he spoke to me as he has +never spoken before. He was very angry and I know that he did not mean +all that he said to me--but it hurt me." + +"I'm afraid, Mrs. Craven, that it was because of me. Rupert is very +angry with me and he refuses to consent to Margaret's marriage with me. +Is not that so?" + +"Yes, but it is not only that. For many weeks now he has not been +himself with me. I am not a happy woman. I have had much to make me +unhappy. My children are a very great deal to me. I think that this has +broken my heart." + +"Mrs. Craven, if there is anything that I can do that will put things +right, if I can say anything to Rupert, if I can tell him anything, +explain anything, I will. I think I can tell you, Mrs. Craven, why it +is that Rupert does not wish me to marry Margaret. I have something to +confess--to you." + +Then he was defeated at last? He had surrendered? In another moment the +words "I killed Carfax and Rupert knows that I killed him" would have +left his lips--but Mrs. Craven had not heard his words. Her face was +turned away from him again and she spoke in a strange, monotonous voice +as one speaks in a dream. + +The words seemed to be created out of the faded sofa, the misty window, +the dim shadowy bed. She was crying--her hands were pressed to her +face--the words came between her sobs. + +"It is too much for me. All these years I have kept silence. Now I can +bear it no longer. If Rupert leaves me, it will kill me, but unless I +speak to some one I shall die of all this silence, . . . I cannot bear +any longer to be alone with God." + +Was it his own voice? Were these his own words? Had things gone so far +with him that he did not know--"I cannot bear any longer to be alone +with God. . . ." Was not that his own perpetual cry? + +"Mr. Dune, I killed my husband." + +In the silence that followed the only sound was her stifled crying and +the crackling fire. + +"You knew from the beginning." + +"No, I did not know." + +"But you were different from all the others. I felt it at once when I +saw you. You knew, you understood, you were sorry for me." + +"I am sorry. I understand. But I did not know." + +"Let me tell you." She turned her face towards him and began to speak +eagerly. + +He took her hand between his. + +"Oh! the relief--now at once--after all these years of silence. Fifteen +years. . . . It happened when Rupert was a tiny boy. You see he was +a bad man. I found it out almost at once--after a month or two. But I +loved him madly--utterly. I did not care about his being bad--that does +not matter to a woman--but he set about breaking my heart. It amused +him. Margaret was born. He used to terrify me with the things that he +would teach her. He said that he would make her as big a devil as he +was himself. I prayed God that I might never have another child and +then Rupert was born. From that moment my one prayer was that my husband +might die. + +"At last my opportunity came. He fell ill--dreadful attacks of +heart--and one night he had a terrible attack and I held back the +medicine that would have saved him. I saw his eyes watching me, pleading +for it. I stood and waited . . . he died." + +She stopped for a moment--then her words came more slowly: "It was a +very little thing--it was not a very bad thing--he was a wicked +man . . . but God has punished me and He will punish me until I die. All +these years He has pursued me, urging me to confess--I have fought and +struggled against it, but at last He has beaten me--He has driven me. +. . . Oh! the relief! the relief!" + +She looked at him curiously. + +"If you did not know, why did I feel that you understood and +sympathized? Have you no horror of me now?" + +For answer, he bent and kissed her cheek. + +"I too am very lonely. I too know what God can do." + +Then she clung to him as though she would never let him leave her. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +GOD + +1 + +Half an hour later he was in his room again, and the real world had come +back to him. It had come back with the surprise of some supernatural +mechanism; it was as though the sofa, chairs, pictures had five minutes +before been grass and toadstools in a world of mist and now were sofa, +chairs and pictures again. + +He was absolutely sane, whereas half an hour ago he had been held almost +by an enchantment. If Margaret were here with him now, here in his +room--not in that dim, horrible Rocket Road house, raised it might +almost seem by the superstitions and mists of his own conscience--ah! +how he would love her! + +He was filled with a sense of energy and enterprise. He would have it +out with Rupert, laugh away his suspicions, reconcile him to the idea of +the marriage, finally drag Margaret from that horrible house. As with a +man who has furious attacks of neuralgia, and between the agony of them +feels, so great is the relief, that no pain will ever come to him again, +so Olva was now, for an instant, the Olva of a month ago. + +Four times had the Pursuer thus given him respite--on the morning after +the murder, in St. Martin's Chapel on that same evening, after his +confession to Bunning, and now. But Aegidius, looking down from his +wall, saw the strong, stern face of his young friend and loved him and +knew that, at last, the pursuit was at an end. . . . + +Bunning came in. + + +2 + +Bunning came in. The little silver clock had just struck a quarter to +one. The match was at half-past two. + +Olva knew at his first sight of Bunning that something had happened. The +man seemed dazed, he dragged his great legs slowly after him and planted +them on the floor as though he wanted something that was secure, like +a man who had begun desperately to slip down a crevasse. His back was +bowed and his cheeks were flushed as though some one had been striking +him, but his eyes told Olva everything. They were the eyes of a child +who has been wakened out of sleep and sees Terror. + +"What is it? Sit down. Pull yourself together." + +"Oh! Dune! . . . My God, Dune!" The man's voice had the unreality of men +walking in a cinematograph. "Craven's coming." + +"Coming! Where?" + +"Here!" + +"Now?" + +"I don't know--when. He knows." + +"You told him?" + +"I thought it best. I thought I was doing right. It's all gone wrong. +Oh! these last two days! what I've suffered!" + +Now for the first time in the history of the whole affair Olva Dune may +be said to have felt sheer physical terror, not terror of the mist, +of the road, of the darkness, of the night, but terror of physical +things--of the loss of light and air, of the denial of food, of physical +death. . . . For a moment the room swam about him. He heard, in the +Court below him, some men laughing--a dog was barking. Then he saw that +Bunning was on the edge of hysteria. The bedmaker would come in and find +him laughing--as he had laughed once before. + +Olva stilled the room with a tremendous effort--the floor sank, the +table and chairs tossed no longer. + +"Now, Bunning, tell me quickly. They'll be here to lay lunch in a +minute. What have you told Craven? And why have you told him anything?" + +"I told him--yesterday--that I did it." + +"That _you_ did it?" + +"Yes, that I murdered Carfax." + +"My God! You fool! . . . You fool!" + +A most dangerous thing this devotion of a fool. + +But, strangely, Olva's words roused in Bunning a kind of protest, so +that he pulled his eyes back into their sockets, steadied his hands, +held his boots firmly to the floor, and, quite softly, with a little +note of urgency in it as though he were pleading before a great court, +said-- + +"Yes, I know. But he drove me to it; Craven did. I thought it was the +only way to save you. He's been at me now for days; ever since that time +he stopped me in Outer Court and asked me why I was a friend of yours. +He's been coming to my room--at night--at all sorts of times--and just +sitting there and looking at me." + +Olva came across and touched Bunning's arm: "Poor Bunning! What a brute +I was to tell you!" + +"He used to come and say nothing--just look at me. I couldn't stand it, +you know. I'm not a clever man--not at all clever--and I used to try +and think of things to talk about, but it always seemed to come back to +Carfax--every time." + +"And then--when you told me the other day about your caring for Miss +Craven--I felt that I must do something. I'd always puzzled, you know, +why I should be brought into it at all. I didn't seem to be the sort of +fellow who'd be likely to be mixed up with a man like you. I felt that +it must be with some purpose, you know, and now--now--I thought I +suddenly saw-- + +"I don't know--I thought he'd believe me--I thought he'd tell the police +and they'd arrest me--and that'd be the end of it." + +Here Bunning took a handkerchief and began miserably to gulp and sniff. + +"But, good heavens!" Olva cried, "you didn't suppose that they wouldn't +discover it all at the police-station in a minute! Two questions and +you'd be done! Why, man----!" + +"I didn't know. I thought it would be all right. I was all alone that +afternoon, out for a walk by myself--and you'd told me how you did it. +I'd only got to tell the same story. I couldn't see how any one should +know---I couldn't really . . . I don't suppose"--many gulps--"that I +thought much about that--I only wanted to save you." + +How bright and wonderful the day! How full of colour the world! And it +was all over, all absolutely, finally done. + +"Now--look here, stop that sniffing--it's all right. I'm not angry with +you. Just tell me exactly what you said to Craven yesterday when you +told him." + +Bunning thought. "Well, he came into my room quite early after my +breakfast. I was reading my Bible, as I used to, you know, every +morning, to see whether I could be interested again, as I used to be. I +was finding I couldn't when Craven came in. He looked queer. He's been +looking queerer every day, and I don't think he's been sleeping. Then +he began to ask me questions, not actually about anything, but odd +questions like, Where was I born? and Why did I read the Bible? and +things like that--just to make me comfortable--and his eyes were so +funny, red and small and never still. Then he got to you." + +The misery now in Bunning's eyes was more than Olva could bear. It was +dumb, uncomprehending misery, the unhappiness of something caught in a +trap--and that trap this glittering dancing world! + +"Then he got to you! He always asked me the same questions. How long +I'd known you?--Why we got on together when we were so different?--silly +meaningless things--and he didn't listen to my answers. He was always +thinking of the next things to ask and that frightened me so." + +The misery in Bunning's eyes grew deeper. + +"Suddenly I thought I saw what was meant--that I was intended to take it +on myself. It made me warm all over, the though of it. . . . Now, I was +going to do something . . . that's how I saw it!" + +"Going to do something . . ." he repeated desperately, with choking +sobs between the words. "It's all happened so quickly. He had just said +absently, not looking at me, 'You like Dune, don't you?' + +"When I came out with it all at once---I said, 'Yes, I know, I know what +_you_ want. You think that Dune killed Carfax and that _I_ know he did, +but he didn't _I_ killed Carfax. . . .'" + +Bunning's voice quite rang out. His eyes now desperately sought Olva's +face, as though he would find there something that would make the world +less black. + +"I wasn't frightened---not then---that was the odd thing. The only thing +I thought about was saving you---getting you out of it. I didn't see! I +didn't see!" + +"And then---what did Craven say?" Olva asked quietly. + +"Craven said scarcely anything. He asked me whether I realized what I +was saying, whether I saw what I was in for? I said 'Yes'---that it had +all been too much for my conscience, that I had to tell some one---all +the things that you told me. Then he asked me why I'd done it. I told +him because Carfax always bullied me---he did, you know---and that one +day I couldn't stand it any longer and I met him in the wood and hit +him. He said, 'You must be very strong,' and of course I'm not, you +know, and that ought to have made me suspect something. But it didn't. +. . . Then he said he must think over what he ought to do, but all the +time he was saying it I knew he was thinking of something else and then +he went away." + +"That was yesterday morning?" + +"Yesterday morning, and all day I was terrified, but happy too. I +thought I'd done a big thing and I thought that the police would come +and carry me off. . . . Nothing happened all day. I sat there waiting. +And I thought of you---that you'd be able to marry Miss Craven and +would be very happy. + +"Then, this morning, coming from chapel, Craven stopped me. I thought he +was going to tell me that he'd thought it his duty to give me away. He +would, you know. But it wasn't that. + +"All he said was: 'I wonder how you know so much about it, Bunning.' I +couldn't say anything. Then he said, 'I'm going to ask Dune.' That was +all . . . all," he wretchedly repeated, and then, with a movement of +utter despair, flung his head into his hands, and cried. + +Olva, standing straight with his hands at his side, looked through his +window at the world---at the white lights on the lower sky, at the pearl +grey roofs and the little cutting of dim white street and the high grey +college wall. He was to begin again, it seemed, at the state in which +he'd been on the day after Carfax's murder. Then he had been sure that +arrest would only be a question of hours and he had resolutely faced it +with the resolve that he would drain all the life, all the vigour, all +the fun from the minutes that remained to him. + +Now he had come back to that. Craven would give him away, perhaps . . . +he would, at any rate, drive him away from Margaret. But he would almost +certainly feel it his duty to expose him. He would feel that that would +end the complication with his sister once and for all---the easiest way. +He would feel it his duty---these people and their duty! + +Well, at least he would have his game of football first---no one could +take his afternoon away from him. Margaret would be there to watch him +and he would play! Oh! he would play as he had never played in his life +before! + +Bunning's voice came to him from a great distance--- + +"What are you going to do? What are you going to say to Craven?" + +"Say to him? Why, I shall tell him, of course---tell him everything." + +Bunning leapt from his chair. In his urgency he put his hands on Olva's +arm: "No, no, no. You mustn't do that. Why it will be as though I'd +murdered you. Tell him I did it. Make him believe it. You can---you're +clever enough. Make him feel that I did it. You mustn't, mustn't---let +him know. Oh, please, please. I'll kill myself if you do. I will +really." + +Olva gravely, quietly, put his hands on Bunning's shoulders. + +"It's all right---it had to come out. I've been avoiding it all this +time, escaping it, but it had to come. Don't you be afraid of it. I +daresay Craven won't do anything. After all he loves his sister and she +cares for him. That will influence him. But, anyhow, all that's done +with. There are bigger things in question than Craven knowing about +Carfax, and you were meant to tell him---you were really. You've just +forced me to see what's the right thing to do---that's all." + +Bunning was, surely, in the light of it, a romantic figure. + +Miss Annett came in with the lunch. + + +3 + +As Olva was changing into his football things, Cardillac appeared. + +"Come up to the field with me, will you? I've got a hansom." + +Olva finished tying his boots and stood up. Cardillac looked at him. + +"My word, you seem fit." + +"Yes, I'm splendid, thanks." + +He felt splendid. Never before had he been so conscious of the right to +be alive. His football clothes smelt of the earth and the air. He moved +his arms and legs with wonderful freedom. His blood was pumping through +his body as though death, disease, infirmity such things---were of +another planet. + +For such a man as he there should only be air, love, motion, the +begetting of children, the surprising splendour of a sudden death. Now +already Craven was waiting for him. + +He had sent a note round to Craven's rooms; he had said, "Come in to see +me after the match---five o'clock. I have something to tell you." + +At five o'clock then. . . . + +Meanwhile it was nice of Cardillac to come. They exchanged no words +about it, but they understood one another entirely. It was as though +Cardillac had said---"I expect that you're going to knock me out of this +Rugger Blue as you knocked me out of the Wolves, and I want to show you +that we're pals all the way through." + +What Cardillac really said was---"Have a cigarette? These are Turkish. +Feel like playing a game to-day?" + +"Never felt better in my life." + +"Well, these Dublin fellows haven't had their line crossed yet this +season. May one of us have the luck to do it." + +"Pretty hefty lot of forwards." + +"Yes, O'Brien's their spot Three I believe." + +Olva and Cardillac attracted much attention as they walked through +the College. Miss Annett, watching them from a little window where she +washed plates, gulped in her thin throat with pride for "that Mr. Dune. +There's a gentleman!" The sun above the high grey buildings broke slowly +through yellow clouds. The roads were covered with a thin fine mud and, +from the earth, faint clouds of mist rose and vanished into a sky that +was slowly crumbling from thick grey into light watery blue. + +The cold air beat upon their faces as the hansom rattled past Dunstan's, +over the bridge, and up the hill towards the field. + +Cardillac talked. "There goes Braff. He doesn't often come up to a +game nowadays--must be getting on for seventy--the greatest half the +'Varsity's ever had, I suppose." + +"It's a good thing this mud isn't thicker. It won't make the ball bad. +That game against Monkstown the other day! My word. . . ." + +But Olva was not listening. It seemed to him now that two separate +personalities were divided in him so sharply that it was impossible to +reconcile them. + +There was Olva Dune concentrating all his will, his mentality, upon the +game that he was about to play. This was his afternoon. After it there +would be darkness, death, what you will--parting from Margaret--all +purely physical emotions. + +The other Olva felt nothing physical. The game, confession to Rupert, +trial, imprisonment, even separation from Margaret, all these things +were nothing in comparison with some great business that was in progress +behind it all, as real life may go on behind the painted back cloth of a +stage. Here were amazing happenings, although at present he was confused +and bewildered by them. It was not that Olva was, actually, at the +instant conscious of actual impressions, but rather that great emotions, +great surprising happiness, seemed to shine on some horizon. It was as +though something had said to his soul, "Presently you will feel a joy, a +splendour, that you had never in your wildest thoughts imagined." + +The pursuit was almost at an end. He was now enveloped, enfolded. +Already everything to him--even his love for Margaret--was trivial in +comparison with the effect of some atmosphere that was beginning to hem +him in on every side. + +But against all this was the other Olva--the Olva who desired physical +strength, love, freedom, health. + +Well, let it all be as confusing as it might, he would play his game. +But as he walked into the Pavilion he knew that the prelude to his real +life had only a few more hours to run. . . . + + +4 + +As he passed, with the rest of the team, up the field, he observed two +things only; one thing was Margaret, standing on the left side of the +field just below the covered stand--he could see her white face and her +little black hard hat. + +The other thing was that on the horizon where the wall at the further +end of the field cut the sky there were piled, as though resting on the +top of the wall, high white clouds. For a moment these clouds, piled in +mountain shape of an intense whiteness with round curving edges, held +his eyes because they exactly resembled those clouds that had hung above +him on the day of his walk to Sannet Wood--the day when he had been +caught by the snowstorm. These clouds brooded, waiting above him; their +dazzling white had the effect of a steady, unswerving gaze. + +They lined out. He took his place as centre three-quarter with Cardillac +outside left and Tester and Buchan on the other wing. Old Lawrence +was standing, a solid rock of a figure, back. There was a great crowd +present. The tops of the hansom cabs in the road beyond rose above the +wall, and he could hear, muffled with distance, shots from the 'Varsity +firing range. + +All these things focussed themselves upon his brain in the moment before +the whistle went; the whistle blew, the Dublin men had kicked off, +Tester had fielded the ball, sent it back into touch, and the game had +begun. + +This was to be the game of his life and yet he could not centre his +attention upon it. He was conscious that Whymper--the great Whymper--was +acting as linesman and watching every movement. He knew that for most +of that great crowd his was the figure that was of real concern, he +knew that he was as surely battling for his lady as though he had been +fighting, tournament-wise, six hundred years ago. + +But it all seemed of supreme unimportance. To-night he was to face +Rupert, to state, once and for all, that he had killed Carfax, to submit +Margaret to a terrible test . . . even that of no importance. All life +was insignificant beside something that was about to happen; before the +gaze of that white dazzling cloud be felt that he stood, a little pigmy, +alone on a brown spreading field. + +The game was up at the University end. The Dublin men were pressing and +the Cambridge forwards seemed to have lost their heads. It was a case +now of "scrum," lining out, and "scrum" again. The Cambridge men got the +ball, kept it between their heels and tried, desperately to wheel with +it and carry it along with them. It escaped them, dribbled out of the +scrimmage, the Cambridge half leapt upon it, but the Dublin man was upon +him before he could get it away. It was on the ground again, the Dublin +forwards dribbled it a little and then some one, sweeping it into his +arms, fell forward with it, over the line, the Cambridge men on top of +him. + +Dublin had scored a try, and a goal from an easy angle followed--Dublin +five points. + +They all moved back to the centre of the field and now the Cambridge +men, rushing the ball from a line-out in their favour, pressed hard. At +last the ball came to the three-quarters. Tester caught it, it passed to +Buchan, who as he fell flung it right out to Cardillac; Cardillac draw +his man, swerved, and sent it back to Olva. As Olva felt the neat hard +surface of it, as he knew that the way was almost clear before him, his +feet seemed clogged with heavy weights. Something was about to happen to +him--something, but not this. The crowd behind the ropes were shouting, +he knew that he was himself running, but it seemed that only his body +was moving, his real self was standing back, gazing at those white +clouds--waiting. + +He knew that he made no attempt to escape the man in front of him; he +seemed to run straight into his arms; he heard a little sigh go up from +behind the ropes, as he tumbled to the ground, letting the ball trickle +feebly from his fingers. A try missed if ever one was! + +No one said anything, but he felt the disappointment in the air. He +knew what they were saying--"One of Dune's off days! I always said you +couldn't depend upon the man. He's just too sidey to care what happens. +. . ." + +Well they might say it if they would; his eyes were on the horizon. + +But his failure had had its effect. Let there be an individualist in +the line and Tester and Buchan would play their well-ordered game to +perfection. They relied as a rule upon Whymper--to-day they had depended +upon Dune. Well Dune had failed them, the forwards were heeling so +slowly, the scrum-half was never getting the ball away--it was a +miserable affair. + +The Dublin forwards pressed again. For a long time the two bodies of men +swayed backwards and forwards; in the University twenty-five Lawrence +was performing wonders. He seemed to be everywhere at once, bringing +men down, seizing, in a lightning flash of time, his opportunity for +relieving by kicking into touch. + +Twice the ball went to the Dublin three-quarters and they seemed +certainly in, but on the first occasion a man slipped and on the second +Olva caught his three-quarter and brought him sharply to the ground. It +was the only piece of work that he had done. + +More struggling--then away on the right some Dublin man had caught it +and was running. Some one dashed at him to hurl him into touch, but he +slipped past and was in. + +Another try--the kick was again successful--Dublin ten points. + +The half-time whistle blew. As the met gathered into groups in the +middle of the field, sucking lemons and gathering additional melancholy +there from, Olva stood a little away from them. Whymper came out into +the field to exhort and advise. As he passed Olva he said-- + +"Rather missed that try of yours. Ought to have gone a bit faster." + +He did not answer, it seemed to be no concern of his at all. He was now +trembling it every limb, but his excitement had nothing to do with +the game. It seemed to him that the earth and the sky were sharing his +emotion am he could feel in the air a great exaltation. I was becoming +literally true for him that earth air, sky were praising at this moment, +in wonderful unison, some great presence. + +"All things betray Thee who betrayest Me. . . ." Now he understood what +that line had intended him to feel--the very sods crushed by his boots +were leading him to submission. + +The whistle sounded. His back now was turned to the white clouds; he was +facing the high stone wall and the tops of the hansom cabs. + +The game began again. The Dublin men were determined to drive their +advantage to victory. Another goal and their lead might settle, once and +for all, the issue. + +Olva was standing back, listening. The earth was humming like a top. A +voice seemed to be borne on the wind--"Coming, Coming, Coming." + +He felt that the clouds were spreading behind him and a little wind +seemed to be whispering in the grass--"Coming, Coming, Coming." His very +existence now was strung to a pitch of expectation. + +As in a dream he saw that a Dublin man with the ball had got clear away +from the clump of Cambridge forwards, and was coming towards him. Behind +him only was Lawrence. He flung himself at the man's knees, caught them, +falling himself desperately forward. They both came crashing to the +ground. It was a magnificent collar, and Olva, as he fell, heard, as +though it were miles away, a rising shout, saw the sky bend down to him, +saw the ball as it was jerked up rise for a moment into the air--was +conscious that some one was running. + + +5 + +He was on his knees, alone, on the vast field that sloped a little +towards the horizon. + +Before him the mountain clouds were now lit with a clear silver light so +dazzling that his eyes were lowered. + +About him was a great silence. He was himself minute in size, a tiny, +tiny bending figure. + +Many years passed. + +A great glory caught the colour from the sky and earth and held it like +a veil before the cloud. + +In a voice of the most radiant happiness Olva cried-- + +"I have fled--I am caught--I am held . . . Lord, I submit." + +And for the second time he heard God's voice-- + +"My Son . . . My Son." + +He felt a touch--very gentle and tender--on his shoulder. + + +6 + +Many years had passed. He opened his eyes and saw the ball that had been +rising, many years ago, now falling. + +The man whom he had collared was climbing to his feet; behind them men +were bending down for a "scrum." The shout that he had heard when he had +fallen was still lingering in the air. + +And yet many years had passed. + +"Hope you're not hurt," the Dublin man said. "Came down hard." + +"No, thanks, it's all right." + +Olva got on to his feet. Some one cried, "Well collared, Dune." + +He ran back to his place. Now there was no hesitation or confusion. A +vigour like wine filled his body. The Cambridge men now were pressing; +the ball was flung back to Cardillac, who threw to Olva. The Dublin line +was only a few yards away and Olva was over. Lawrence kicked a goal and +Cambridge had now five points to the Dublin ten. + +Cambridge now awoke to its responsibilities. The Dublin men seemed to be +flagging a little, and Tester and Buchan, having apparently decided that +Olva was himself again, played their accustomed game. + +But what had happened to Dune? There he had been his old casual superior +self during the first half of the game. Now he was that inspired player +that the Harlequin match had once revealed him. Whymper had spoken to +him at half-time. That was what it was--Whymper had roused him. + +For he was amazing. He was everywhere. Even when he had been collared, +he was suddenly up, had raced after the three-quarter line, caught them +up and was in the movement again. Five times the Cambridge Threes were +going, were half-way down the field, and were checked by the wonderful +Dublin defence. Again and again Cambridge pressed. There were only ten +minutes left for play and Cambridge were still five points behind. + +Somebody standing in the crowd said, "By Jove, Dune seems to be enjoying +it. I never saw any one look as happy." + +Some one else said, "Dune's possessed by a devil or something. I never +saw anything like that pace. He doesn't seem to be watching the game at +all, though." + +Some one said, "There's going to be a tremendous snowstorm in a minute. +Look at those white clouds." + +Then, when there were five minutes more to play, there was a forward +rush over the Dublin line--a Cambridge man, struggling at the bottom +of a heap of legs and arms, touched down. A Dublin appeal was made for +"Carried over," but--no--"Try for Cambridge." + +A deafening shout from behind the ropes, then a breathless pause whilst +Lawrence stepped back to take the kick, then a shattering roar as the +ball sailed between the posts. + +Ten points all and three minutes left to play. + +They were back to the centre, the Dublin men had kicked, Tester had +gathered and returned to touch. There was a line-out, a Cambridge man +had the ball and fell, Cambridge dribbled past the ball to the half, the +ball was in Cardillac's hands. + +Let this be ever to Cardillac's honour! Fame of a lifetime might have +been his, the way was almost clear before him--he passed back to Olva. +The moment had come. The crowd fell first into a breathless silence, +then screamed with excitement-- + +"Dune's got it. He's off!" + +He had a crowd of men upon him. Handing off, bending, doubling, almost +down, slipping and then up again--he was through them. + +The great clouds were gathering the grey sky into their white arms. Mr. +Gregg, at the back of the stand, forgetting for once decorum, white and +trembling, was hoarse with shouting. + +Olva's body seemed so tiny on that vast field--two Dublin three-quarters +came for him. He appeared to run straight into the arms of both of them +and then was through them. They started after him--one man was running +across field to catch him. It was a race. Now there fell silence as the +three men tore after the flying figure. Surely never, in the annals of +Rugby football, had any one run as Olva ran then. Only now the Dublin +back, and he, missing the apparent swerve to the right, clutched +desperately at Olva's back, caught the buckle of his "shorts" and stood +with the thing torn off in his hand. + +He turned to pursue, but it was too late. Olva had touched down behind +the posts. + +As he started back with the ball the wide world seemed to be crying and +shouting, waving and screaming. + +Against the dull grey sky far away an ancient cabman, standing on the +top of his hansom, flourished his whip. + +But as he stood there the shouting died--the crowds faded--alone there +on the brown field with the white high clouds above him, Olva was +conscious, only, of the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY + +1 + +He had a bath, changed his clothes, and sitting before his fire waited. + +As he looked around his room he knew that he was leaving it for ever. +What ever might be the issue of his conversation with Rupert, he knew +that that at any rate was true; he would never return here again--or he +would not return until he had worked out his duty. He looked about +him regretfully; he had grown very fond of that room and the things +in it--the shape of it, the books, the blue bowls, the bright fire, +"Aegidius" (but he would take "Aegidius" with him). He looked last at +the photograph of his father, the rocky eyes, the flowing beard, the +massive shoulders. + +It was back to him that he was going, and he would walk all the way. +Walking alone he would listen, he would watch, he would wait, and then, +in that great silence, he would be told what he must do. + +In the pleasant crackle of the fire, in the shaded light of the lamp, in +the starlit silence of the College Courts, there seemed such safety; in +his heart there was such happiness; in that moment of waiting for Rupert +Craven to come he learnt once and for all that, in very _truth_, there +is no gift, no reward, no joy that can equal "the Peace of God," nor is +there any temporal danger, disease or agony that can threaten its power. + +As the last notes of the clock in Outer Court striking five died away +Rupert Craven came in. If he had seemed tired and worn-out before, now +the overwhelming impression that he gave was of an unhappiness from +which he seemed to have no outlet. He was young enough to be tormented +by the determination to do the right thing; he was young enough to give +his whole devotion to his sister; he was young enough to admire, against +all determination, Olva's presence and prowess and silence; he was young +enough to be haunted, night and day, by the terrors of his imagination; +he was young enough to be amazed at finding the world a place of +Life and Death; he was young enough finally to be staggered that he +personally should be drawn into the struggle. + +But now, just now, as he stood in the doorway, he was simply tired, +tired out. He pulled himself together with the obvious intention of +being cold and fierce and judicial. He had cornered Dune at last, he +had driven him to confession, he was a fine fellow, a kind of Fate, the +Supreme Judge . . . this is what he doubtless desired to feel; but he +wished that Dune had not played so wonderful a game that afternoon, that +Dune did not now--at this moment of complete disaster and ruin--look +so strangely happy, that he were himself not so utterly wretched and +conscious of his own failure to do anything as it ought to be done. He +did his best; he refused to sit down, he remained as still as possible, +he looked over Dune's head in order to avoid those shining eyes. + +The eyes caught him. + +"Craven, why have you been badgering the wretched Bunning?" + +"I thought you asked me to come here to tell me something--I didn't +come to answer questions." + +"We'll come to my part of it in a moment. But I think it's only fair to +answer me first." + +"What have you got to do with Bunning?" + +"That's not, immediately, the point. The thing I want to know is, why +you should have chosen, during the last week, to go and torment the +hapless Bunning until you've all but driven him out of his wits." + +"I don't see what it's got to do with you." + +"It's got this much to do with me--that he came to me this morning with +a story so absurd that it proves that he can't be altogether right in +his head. He told me that he had confided this absurd story to you." + +There was no answer. + +"I don't suppose," Olva went on at last gently, "that we've either of +us got very much time, and there's a great deal to be done, so let's +go straight to it. Bunning told me this morning that he declared to you +yesterday that he--of all people in the world--had murdered Carfax." + +"Yes," at last Craven sullenly muttered, "he told me that." + +"And of course you didn't believe it?" + +"I didn't believe that _he'd_ done it--no. But he knows who _did_ do it. +He's got all the details. Some one has told him." + +Craven was trembling. Olva pushed a chair towards him. + +"Look here, you'd better sit down." + +Craven sat down. + +"I know that some one told him," Olva said quietly, "because I told +him." + +"Then you know who----" Craven's voice was a whisper. + +"I know," said Olva, "because it was I who killed Carfax." + +Craven took it---the moment for which he'd been waiting so long--in the +most amazing way. + +"Oh!" he cried, like a child who has cut its finger. "Oh! I wish +you hadn't!" There was the whole of Craven's young struggle with an +astounding world in that cry. + +Then, after that, there was a long silence, and had some one come into +the room he would have looked at the two men before the fire and have +supposed that they were gently and comfortably falling off to sleep. + +Olva at last said; "Of course I know that you have suspected me for a +long time. Everything played into your hands. I have done my very utmost +to prevent your having positive proof of the thing, but that part of the +business is now done with. You know, and you can do what you please with +the knowledge." + +But, now that the moment had come, Rupert Craven could do nothing with +it. + +"I don't want to do anything," he muttered at last. "I'm not up to doing +anything. I don't understand it. I'm not the sort of fellow who ought to +be in this kind of thing at all." + +That was how he now saw it, as an unfair advantage that had been taken +of him. This point of view changed his position to the extent of his now +almost appealing to Olva to help him out of it. + +"Your telling me like that has made it all so difficult. I feel now +suddenly as though I hated Carfax and hadn't the least objection to +somebody doing for him. And _that's_ all wrong--murder's an awful +thing--one ought to feel bad about it." Then finally, with the cry of +a child in the dark, "But this _isn't_ life, it never _has_ been +life since that day I heard of Carfax being killed. It's the sort of +thing--it's been for weeks the sort of thing--that you read of in books +or see at the Adelphi; and I'm not that kind of fellow. I tell you I've +been mad all this last month, getting it on the brain, seeing things +night and day. My one idea was to make you own up to it, but I never +thought of what was going to happen when you did." + +Olva let him work it out. + +"Of course I never thought of you for an instant as the man until that +afternoon when you talked in your sleep. Then I began to think and I +remembered what Carfax had said about your hating him. Then I went with +your dog for a walk and we found your matchbox. After that I noticed all +sorts of things and, at the same time, I saw that you were in love with +Margaret. That made me mad. My sister is everything in the world to me, +and it seemed to me that--she should marry a fellow who . . . without +knowing! I began to be ill with it and yet I hadn't any real reasons to +bring forward. You wanted me to show my cards, but I wouldn't. Sometimes +I thought I really _was_ going mad. Then two things made me desperate. +I saw that you had some secret understanding with my mother and I +saw--that my sister loved you. We'd always been tremendous pals--we +three, and it seemed as though every one were siding against me. I saw +Margaret marrying you and mother letting her--although she knew . . . +it was awful--Hell!" + +He pressed his hands together, his voice shook: "I'd never been in +anything before--no kind of trouble--and now it seemed to put me right +on one side. I couldn't see straight. One moment I hated you, then I +admired you, and the oddest thing of all was that I didn't think about +the actual thing--your having killed Carfax--at all; everything else was +so much more important. I just wanted to be sure that you'd done it and +then--for you to go away and never see any of us again." + +Olva smiled. + +"Yes," he said. + +"But it wasn't until the 5th of November--the 'rag' night--that I was +quite sure. I knew then, when I saw you hitting that fellow, that +you'd killed Carfax. But, of course, that wasn't proof. Then I noticed +Bunning. I saw that he was always with you, and of course it was an +odd sort of friendship for you to have; I could see, too, that he'd got +something on his mind. I went for him--it was all easy enough--and at +last he broke down. Then I'd got you----" + +"You've got me," said Olva. + +Rupert looked him, slowly, in the face. "You're wonderful!" Then he +added, almost wistfully, "If Margaret hadn't loved you it wouldn't +really any of it have mattered. I suppose that's very immoral, but +that's what it comes to. Margaret's everything in the world to me and +you must tell her." + +"Of course I will tell her," Olva said. "That's what I ought to have +done from the beginning. That's what I was _meant_ to do. But I had +to be driven to it. What will you do, Craven, if it doesn't matter to +her--if she doesn't care whether I killed Carfax or no?" + +"At least you'll have told her," the boy replied firmly. "At least +she'll know. Then it's for her to decide. She'll do the right thing," he +ended proudly. + +"And what do you think that is?" Olva asked him. + +"I don't know," he answered. "This seems to have altered everything. I +ought now to be hating you--I don't. I ought to shudder at the sight of +you--I don't. The Carfax business seems to have slipped right back, to +be ages ago, not to matter. All I suppose I wanted was to be reassured +about you--if Margaret loved you. And now I _am_ reassured. I believe +you know what to do." + +"Yes, I know what to do," said Olva. "I'm going away to-morrow for a +long time. I shall always love Margaret--there can never be any one +else--but I shall not marry her unless I can come back cleared." + +"And who--what--can clear you?" + +"Ah! who knows! There'll be something for me to do, I expect. . . . I +will see Margaret to-morrow--and say good-bye." + +Craven's face was white, the eyelids had almost closed, his head hung +forward as though it were too heavy to support. + +"I'm just about done," he murmured, "just about done. It's been all +a beastly dream . . . and now you're all right--you and Margaret--I +haven't got to bother about her any more." + + +2 + +After hall Olva went to Cardillac's room for the last time. No one there +knew that it was for the last time. It seemed to them all that he was +just beginning to come out, to be one of them. The football match +of that afternoon had been wonderful enough for anything, and the +excitement of it lingered still about Cardillac's rooms, thick now with +tobacco-smoke, crowded with men, noisy with laughter. The air was so +strong with smoke, the lights so dim, the voices so many, that Olva +finding a corner near an open window slipped, it might almost seem, from +the world. Outside the snow, threatening all day, now fell heavily; the +old Court took it with a gentleness that showed that the snow was meant +for it, and the snow covered the grey roofs and the smooth grass with +a satisfaction that could almost be heard, so deep was it. Just this +little window-pane between the world that Olva was leaving and the world +to which he was going! + +He caught fragments: "Just that last run--gorgeous--but old Snodky says +that that horse of his---" + +"My dear fellow, you take it from me--they can't get on without +it. . . . Now a girl I know----" + +"They fairly fell upon one another's necks and hugged. Talk of the +fatted calf! Now if I'd asked the governor----" + +Around him there came, with a poignancy, a beauty, that, now that he was +to lose it all, was like a wound, the wonder of this Cambridge. Then he +had it, the marvellous moment! On the other side of the window the +still court, a few twinkling lights, the powdering snow--and here the +vitality, the energy, the glowing sense of two thousand souls marching +together upon Life and seizing it, with a shout, lifting it, stepping +out with it as though it were one long glory! Afterwards what matter? +There had been the moment, never to be forgotten! Cambridge, the +beautiful threshold! + +For an instant the sense of his own forthcoming journey--away from life, +as it seemed to him--caught him as he sat there. "What will God do with +me?" + +From the outer world through the whispering snow, he caught the echo of +the Voice--"My Son . . . My Son." + +Soon he heard Lawrence's tremendous laugh--"Where's Dune? Is he here?" + +Lawrence found him and sat down beside him. + +"By Jupiter, old man, I was frightened for you this afternoon. Until +half-time you were drugged or somethin', and there was I prayin' to my +Druids all I was worth to put back into you. And, my word, they did it +I Talk about that second half--never saw anythin' like it! Have a drink, +old man!" + +"No, thanks. Yes, I didn't seem to get on to it at all at first." + +"Well, you're fixed for Queen's Club--just heard--got your Blue all +right. You and Whymper ought to do fine things between you, although +stickin' two individualists together on the same wing like that ain't +exactly my idea, and they don't as a rule settle the team as early +as this"--Lawrence put a large hand on Olva's knee. "Goin' home for +Christmas?" he said. + +"I expect so." + +"Well, yer see--I've got a sort of idea. I wish this vac, you'd come +an' stay with us for a bit. Good old sorts, my people. Governor quite +a brainy man--and you could talk, you two. There'll be lots of people +tumblin' about the place--lots goin' on, and the governor'll like to +have a sensible feller once in a way . . . and I'd like it too," he +ended at the bottom of his gruff voice. + +"Well, you see;" Olva explained, "it depends a bit on my own father. +He's all alone up there at our place, and I like to be with him as much +as possible." Olva looked through the window at the snow, grey against +the sky, white against the college walls. "I don't quite know where I +shall be--I think you must let me write to you." + +"Oh! _that's_ all right," said Lawrence. "I want you to come along some +time. You'd like the governor--and if you don't mind listening to an ass +like me--well, I'd take it as an honour if you'd talk to me a bit." + +As Olva looked Lawrence in the eyes he knew that it would be well with +him if, in his journey through the world, he met again so good a soul. +Cardillac joined them and they all talked for a little. Then Olva said +good-night. + +He turned for a moment at the door and looked back. Some one at the +other end of the room was singing "Egypt" to a cracked piano. A babel +of laughter, of chatter, every now and again men tumbled against one +another, like cubs in a cave, and rolled upon the floor. Lawrence, +his feet planted wide apart, was standing in the middle of an admiring +circle, explaining something very slowly. + +"If the old scrum-half," he was saying, "only stood back enough---" + +What a splendid lot they were! What a life it was! So much joy in the +heart of so much beauty! . . . Cambridge! + +As he crossed the white court the strains of "Egypt" came, like a +farewell, through the tumbling snow. + +There was still a thing that he must do. He went to say good-bye to +Bunning. He thought with surprise as he climbed the stairs that this was +the first time that he'd ever been to Bunning's room. It had always been +Bunning who had come to him. He would always see that picture---Bunning +standing, clumsily, awkwardly in the doorway. Poor Bunning! + +When Olva came in he was sitting in a very old armchair, staring into +the fire, his hair on end and his tie above his collar. Olva watched him +for a moment, the face, the body, everything about him utterly dejected; +the sound of Olva's entrance did not at once rouse him. When at last he +saw who it was he started up, his face flushing crimson. + +"You!" he cried. + +"Yes," said Olva, "I've come to tell you that everything's all right." + +For a moment light touched Bunning's eyes, then slowly he shook his +head. + +"Things can't be all right. It's gone much too far." + +"My dear Bunning, I've seen Craven. I've told him. I assure you that all +is well." + +"You told him?" + +"Everything. That I killed Carfax--he knew it, of course, long ago. He +went fast asleep at the end of it." + +Bunning shook his head again, wearily. "It's all no good. You're +saying these things to comfort me. Even if Craven didn't do anything he +wouldn't let you marry his sister now. That's more important than being +hung." + +"If it hadn't been for you," Olva said slowly, "I should have gone on +wriggling. You've made me come out into the open. 'I'm going to tell +Miss Craven everything to-morrow." + +"What will she do?" + +"I don't know. She'll do the right thing. After that I'm going away." + +"Going away?" + +"Yes. I want to think about things. I've never thought about anything +except myself. I'm going to tramp it home, and after that I shall find +out what I'm going to do." + +"And Miss Craven?" + +"I shall come back to her one day--when I'm fit for it--or rather, _if_ +I'm fit for it. But that's enough about myself. I only wanted to tell +you, Bunning, before I go that I shall never forget your telling Craven. +You're lucky to have been able to do so fine a thing. We shall meet +again later on--I'll see to that." + +Bunning, his whole body strung to a desperate appeal, caught Olva's +hand. "Take me with you, Dune. Take me with you. I'll be your +servant--anything you like. I'll do anything if you'll let me come. I +won't be a nuisance--I'll never talk if you don't want me to--I'll do +everything you tell me--only let me come. You're the only person +who's ever shown me what I might do. I might be of use if I were with +you--otherwise----" + +"Rot, Bunning. You've got plenty to do here. I'm no good yet for +anybody. One day perhaps we'll meet again. I'll write to you. I promise +not to forget you. How could I? and one day I'll come back---" + +Bunning moved away, his head banging. "You must think me an awful +fool--of course you do. I am, I suppose. I'd be awful to be with for +long at a time--of course I see that. But I don't know what to do. If +I go home and tell them I'm not going to be a parson it'll be terrible. +They'll all be at me. Not directly. They won't say anything, but they'll +have people to talk to me. They'll fill the house--they won't spare any +pains. And then, at last, being all alone, I shall give in. I know I +shall, I'm not clever or strong. And I shall be ordained--and then +it'll be hell. I can see it all. You came into my life and made it all +different, and now you're going out of it again and it will be worse +than ever---" + +"I won't go out of it," said Olva. "I'll write if you'd like--and +perhaps we'll meet. I'll be always your friend. And--look here--I'll +tell Margaret--Miss Craven--about you, and she'll ask you to go and see +her, and if you two are friends it'll be a kind of alliance between all +of us, won't it?" + +Bunning was happier--"Oh, but she'll think me such an ass!" + +"Oh no, she won't, she's much too clever, And, Bunning, don't let +yourself be driven by people. Stick to the thing you want to do--you'll +find something all right. Just go on here and wait until you're shown. +Sit with your ears open----" + +Bunning filled his mouth with toast. "If you'll write to me and keep up +with me I'll do anything." + +"And one thing--Don't tell any one I'm going. I shall just slip out of +college early the day after to-morrow. I don't want any one to know. +It's nobody's affair but mine." + +Then he held out his hand--"Good-bye, Bunning, old man." + +"Good-bye," said Bunning. + +When Olva had gone he sat down by the fire again, staring. + +Some hours afterwards he spoke, suddenly, aloud: "I can stand the lot of +them now." + +Then he went to bed. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +OLVA AND MARGARET + +1 + +On the next evening the sun set with great splendour. The frost had come +and hardened the snow and all day the sky bad been a pale frozen blue, +only on the horizon fading into crocus yellow. + +The sun was just vanishing behind the grey roofs when Olva went to +Rocket Road. All day he had been very busy destroying old letters and +papers and seeing to everything so that he should leave no untidiness +nor carelessness behind him. Now it was all over. To-morrow morning, +with enough money but not very much, and with an old rucksack that he +had once had on a walking tour, he would set out. He did not question +this decision--he knew that it was what he was intended to do--but it +was the way that Margaret would take his confession that would make that +journey hard or easy. + +He did not know--that was the surprising thing--how she would take it. +He knew her so little. He only knew that he loved her and that she would +do, without flinching, the thing that she felt was right. Oh! but it +would be difficult! + +The house, the laurelled drive, the little road, the distant moor and +wood--these things had to-night a gentle air. Over the moor the setting +sun flung a red flame; the woods burned black; the laurels were heavy +with snow and a robin hopped down the drive as Olva passed. + +He found Margaret in the drawing-room, and here, too, he fancied that +there was more light and air than on other days. + +When the old woman had left the room he suddenly caught Margaret to him +and kissed her as though he would never let her go. She clung to him +with her hands. Then he stood gravely away from her. + +"There," he said, "that is the last time that I may kiss you before I +have told you what it is that I have come here to say. But first may I +go up to your mother for a moment?" + +"Yes," Margaret said, "if you will not be very long. I do not think that +I can have much more patience." Then she added more slowly, gazing into +his face, "Rupert said last night that you would have something to tell +me to-day. I have been waiting all day for you to come. But Rupert was +his old self last night, and he talked to mother and has made her happy +again. Oh! I think that everything is going to be right!" + +"I will soon come down to you," he said. + +Mrs. Craven's long dark room was lit by the setting sun; beyond her +windows the straight white fields lifted shining splendour to the stars +already twinkling in the pale sky. Candles were lit on a little black +table by her sofa and the fire was red deep in its cavernous setting. + +He stood for a moment in the dim room facing the setting sun, and the +light of the fire played about his feet and the pale glow that stole up +into the evening from the snowy fields touched his face. + +She knew as she looked at him that something bad given him great peace. + +"I've come to say good-bye," he said. Then he sat down by her side. + +"No," she said, smiling, "you mustn't go. We want you--Rupert and +Margaret and I. . . ." Then softly, as though to herself, she repeated +the words, "Rupert and Margaret and I." + +"Dear Mrs. Craven, one day I will come back. But tell me, Rupert spoke +to you last night?" + +"Yes, he has made me so very happy. Last night we were the same again as +we used to be, and even, I think, more than we have ever been. Rupert is +growing up." + +"Yes--Rupert is growing up. Did he tell you why he had, during these +weeks, been so strange and unhappy?" + +"No, he gave me no real explanation. But I think that it was the +terrible death of his friend Mr. Carfax--I think that that had preyed +upon his mind." + +"No, Mrs. Craven, it was more than that. He was unhappy because he knew +that it was I that had killed Carfax." + +He saw a little movement pass over her--her hand trembled against her +dress. For some time they sat together there in silence, and the red sun +slipped down behind the fields; the room was suddenly dark except for +the yellow pool of light that the candles made and for the strange gleam +by the window that came from the snow. + +At last she said, "Now I understand--now I understand." + +"I killed him in anger--it was quite fair. No one had any idea except +Rupert, but everything helped to show him that it was I. When he saw +that I loved Margaret he was very unhappy. He saw that we had some kind +of understanding together and he thought that I had told you and that +you sympathize with me. I am going down now to tell Margaret." + +"Poor, poor Olva." It was the first time that she had called him by his +Christian name. She took his hand. "Both of us together--the same thing. +I have paid, God knows I have paid, and soon, I hope, it will be over. +But your life is before you." + +He looked out at the evening fields. "I'm going down now to tell +Margaret. And tomorrow I shall set out. I will not come back to Margaret +until I know that I am cleared--but I want you, while I am away, to +think of me sometimes and to talk of me sometimes to Margaret. And one +day, perhaps, I shall know that I may come back." + +She put her thin hands about his head and drew it down to her and kissed +him. + +"There will never be a time when you are not in my mind," she said. "I +love you as though you were my own son. I had hoped that you would be +here often, but now I see that it is right for you to go. I know that +Margaret will wait for you. Meanwhile an old woman loves you." + +He kissed her and left her. + +At the door through the dark room he heard her thin voice: "May God +bless you and keep you." + +He went to perform his hardest task. + + +2 + +It was the harder in that for a little while he seemed to be left +absolutely alone. The room was dark save for the leaping light of the +fire in the deep stone fireplace, and as he saw Margaret standing there +waiting for him, desperately courageous, he only knew that he loved her +so badly that, for a little while, he could only stand there staring at +her, twisting his hands together, speechless. + +"Well," at last she said. "Come and sit down and tell me all about it." +But her voice trembled a little and her eyes were wide, frightened, +begging him not to hurt her. + +He sat down near her, before the fire, and she instinctively, as though +she knew that this was a very tremendous matter, stood away from him, +her hands clasped together against her black dress. + +Suddenly now, before he spoke, he realized what it would mean to him +if she could not forgive what he had done. He had imagined it once +before--the slow withdrawal of her eyes, the gradual tightening of the +lips, the little instinctive movement away from him. + +If he must go out into the world, having lost her, he thought that he +could never endure, God or no God, the long dreary years in front of +him. + +At last he was brave: "Margaret--at first I want you to know that I +love you with all my heart and soul and body; that nothing that can +ever happen to me can ever alter that love--that I am yours, entirely, +always. And then I want you to know that I am not worthy to love you, +that I ought never to have asked you to love me, that I ought to have +gone away the first time that I saw you." + +She made a little loving, protecting movement towards him with her hands +and then let them drop against her dress again. + +"I ought never to have loved you--because--only a day or two before I +met you--I had killed Carfax, Rupert's friend." + +The words as they fell seemed to him like the screams that iron bolts +give as a gate is barred. + +He whispered slowly the words again: "I killed Carfax"--and then he +covered his eyes with his hands so that he might not see her face. + +The silence seemed eternal--and she had made no movement. To fill that +silence he went on desperately-- + +"I had always hated him--there were many reasons--and one day we met +in Sannet Wood, quarrelled, and I hit him. The blow killed him. I don't +think I meant to kill him, but I wasn't sorry afterwards--I have never +felt remorse for _that_. There have been other things. . . . + +"Soon afterwards I met you--I loved you at once--you know that I +did--and I could not tell you. Oh! I tried--I struggled, pretty poor +struggling--but I could not. I thought that it was all over, that he +was dead and nobody knew. But God was wiser than that--Rupert knew. He +suspected and then he grew more sure, and at last he was quite certain. +Yesterday, after the football match, I told him and I promised him that +I would tell you . . . and I have told you." + +Silence again--and then suddenly there was movement, and there were arms +about him and a voice in his ear--"Poor, poor Olva . . . dear Olva . . . +how terrible it must have been!" + +He could only then catch her and hold her, and furiously press her +against him. "Oh, my dear, my dear--you don't mind!" + +They stayed together, like that, for a long time. + +He could not think clearly, but in the dim recesses of his mind he saw +that they had all--Mrs. Craven, Margaret, Rupert--taken it in the same +kind of way. Could it be that Margaret and Rupert living, although +unconsciously, in the shadow all their lives of just this crime, +breathing the air of it, and breathing it too with the other air of love +and affection--that they had thus, all unknowing, been quietly prepared? + +Or had they, each of them, their especial reason for excusing it? +Mrs. Craven from her great knowledge, Rupert from his great weariness, +Margaret from her great love? + +At last Margaret got up and sat down in a chair away from him. + +"Olva dear, you ought to have told me. If we had married and you had not +told me---" + +"I was so terribly afraid of losing you." + +"But it gives me now," her voice was almost triumphant, "something to +share with you, something to help you in, something to fight with you. +Now I can show you how much I love you. + +"How could you have supposed that I would mind? Do you think that a +woman, if she loves a man, cares for anything that he may do? If you +had killed a hundred men in Sannet Wood I would have helped you to bury +them. The thing that a woman demands most of love is that she may prove +it. I know that murder has a dreadful sound--but to meet your enemy face +to face, to strike him down because you hated him--" Her voice rose, her +eyes flashed--she raised her arms--"You must pay for it, Olva--but we +shall pay together." + +He knew now, as he watched her, that he had a harder thing to do than he +had believed possible. + +"No," he said, and his eyes could not face hers, "we can't pay +together--I must go alone." + +She laughed a little. "How can you go alone if we are together?" + +"We shall not be together. I go away, alone, to-morrow." + +He knew that her eyes were then, very slowly, searching his face. She +said, gently, after a moment's pause, "Tell me, Olva, what you mean. Of +course we are going together." + +"Oh, it is so hard for me!" He was fighting now as he had never fought. +Why not, even at this last moment, in spite of yesterday, defy God and +stay with her and keep her? In that moment of hesitation he suffered so +that the sweat came to his forehead and his eyes were filled with pain +and then were suddenly tired and dull. + +But he came out, and seemed now to stand above the room and look down on +his body and her body and to be filled with a great pity for them both. + +"Margaret dear, it's very hard for me to tell you. Will you be patient +with me and let me put things as clearly as I can--as _I_ see them?" + +She burst out, "Olva, you mustn't leave me, I---" Then she used all her +strength to bring control. Very quietly she ended--"Yes, Olva, tell me +everything." + +"It is so difficult because it is about God, and we all of us feel, and +rightly I expect, that it is priggish to talk about God at all. And then +I don't know whether I can give you everything as it happened because +it was all so unsubstantial and at the end of it any one might say 'But +this is nothing--nothing at all. You've been hysterical, nervous--that's +the meaning of it. You've nothing to show.' And yet if all the world +were to say that to me I should still have no doubt. I know, as I know +that we are sitting here, as I know that I love you, that what I say is +true." + +She brought her chair close to him and then put her band in his and +waited. + +"After I had killed Carfax--after his body had fallen and the wood +was very silent, I was suddenly conscious of God. I can't explain that +better. I can only say that I knew that some one had watched me, I knew +that the world would never be the same place again because some one had +watched me, and I knew that it was not because I had done wrong, but +because I had put myself into a new set of conditions that life would be +different now. I knew these things, and I went back to College. + +"I had never thought about God before, never at all. I had been entirely +heathen. Now I was sure of His existence in the way that one is sure of +wood when one touches it or water when one drinks it. + +"But I did not know at all what kind of God He was. I went to a Revival +meeting, but He was not there. He was not in the College Chapel. He was +not in any forms or ceremonies that I could discover. He might choose +to appear to other men in those different ways but not to me. Then a +fellow, Lawrence, told me about some old worship---Druids and their +altars--but He was not there. And all those days I was increasingly +conscious that there was some one who would not let me alone. It +fastened itself in my mind gradually as a Pursuit, and it seemed to me +too that, as the days passed, I began slowly to understand the nature +of the Pursuer--that He was kind and tender but also relentless, +remorseless. I was frightened. I flung myself into College things--games +and every kind of noise because I was so afraid of silence. And all the +time some one urged me to obedience. That was all that He demanded, that +I should be passive and obey His orders. I would have given in, I think, +very soon, but I met you." + +Her hand tightened in his and then, because he felt that her body was +trembling, he put his arm round her and held her. + +"I knew then when I loved you that I was being urged, by this God, to +confess everything to you. I became frightened; I should have trusted +you, but it was so great a risk. You were all that I had and if I +lost you life would have gone too. Those aren't mere words. . . . I +struggled, I tried every way of escape. And then everything betrayed me. +Rupert began to suspect, then to be sure. Whether I flung myself into +everything or hid in my room it was the same--God came closer and +closer. It was a perfectly real experience and I could see Him as a +great Shadow--not unkind, loving me, but relentless. Then the day came +that I proposed to you and I fainted. I knew then that I was not to be +allowed so easy a happiness. Still I struggled, but now God seemed to +have shut off all the real world and only left me the unreal one--and I +began to be afraid that I was going mad." + +She suddenly bent down and kissed him; she stayed then, until he had +finished, with her head buried in his coat. + +"It wasn't any good--I knew all the time that it could only end one +way. + +"Everything betrayed me, every one left me. I thought every moment that +Rupert would tell me. Then, one night when I was hardly sane, I told a +man, Bunning--a queer odd creature who was the last kind of person to be +told. He, in a fit of mad self-sacrifice, told Rupert that _he'd_ killed +Carfax, and then of course it was all over. + +"I suddenly yielded. It was as though God caught me and held me. I saw +Him, I heard Rim--yesterday--in the middle of the football. I know that +it was so. After that there could be only one thing--Obedience. I knew +that I must tell you. I have told you. I know, too, that I must go out +into the world, alone, and work out my duty . . . and then, oh! then, I +will come back." + +When he had finished, on his shoulder he seemed to feel once more a hand +gently resting. + +At last she raised her head, and clutching his hand as though she would +never let it go, spoke:-- + +"Olva, Olva, I don't understand. I don't think I believe in any God. +And, dear, see--it is all so natural. Thinking about what you had +done, thinking of it all alone, preyed on your nerves. Because Rupert +suspected you made it worse. You imagined things--everything. That is +all--Olva, really that is all." + +"Margaret, don't make it harder for both of us. I must go. There is no +question. I don't suppose that any one can see any one else's spiritual +experiences--one must be alone in that. Margaret dear, if I stayed with +you now--if we married--the Pursuit would begin again. God would hold me +at last--and then one day you would find that I had gone away--I would +have been driven--there would be terror for both of us then." + +She slipped on to her knees and caught his hands. + +"This is all unreal--utterly unreal. But our love for each other, that +is the only thing that can matter for either of us. You have lived in +your thoughts these weeks, imagined things, but think of what you do +if you leave me. You are all I have--you have become my world--I can't +live, I can't live, Olva, without you." + +"I must go. I must find what God is." + +"But listen, dear. You come to me to confess something. You find that +what you have done matters nothing to me. You say that you love me more +than ever, and, in the same moment, that you are going to leave me. Is +it fair to me? You give no reason. You do not know where you are going +or what you intend to do. You can give no definite explanation." + +"There is no explanation except that by what I did in Sannet Wood that +afternoon I put myself out of touch with human society until I had done +something _for_ human society. God has been telling me for many days +that I owe a debt. I have tried to avoid paying that debt. I tried +to escape Him because I knew that he demanded that I must pay my debt +before I could come to you. I see this as clearly as I saw yesterday the +high white clouds above the football field. God now is as real to me as +you are. It is as though for the rest of my life I must live in a house +with two persons. We cannot all live together until certain conditions +are granted. I go to make those conditions possible. Because I have +broken the law I am an outlaw. I am impelled to win my way back to +citizenship again. God will show me." + +"But this is air--all nerves. God is nothing. God does not exist." + +"God _does_ exist. I must work out His order and then I will come back +to you." + +She began to be frightened. She caught his coat in her hands, and +desperately pleaded. Then she saw his white set face, and the way that +his hands gripped the chair, and it was as though she had suddenly found +herself alone in the room. + +"Olva, don't leave me, don't leave me, Olva. I can't live without you. +I don't care what you've done. I'll bear everything with you. I'll come +away with you. I'll do anything if only you will let me be with you." + +"No, I must go alone." + +"But it can't matter--it can't matter. I'm so unimportant. You shall do +what you feel is your duty--only let me be there." + +"No, I must go alone." + +She began to cry, bitter, miserable, sobbing, sitting on the floor, away +from him. Her crying was the only sound in the room. + +He bent and touched her--"Margaret dear--you make it so hard." + +At last, in that strange beautiful way that she had, control seemed +suddenly to come to her; she stood up and looked as though she had, in +that brief moment, lived a thousand years of sorrow. + +"You will come back?" + +"I swear that I will come back to you." + +"I--I--will--wait for you." + +There, in the dim, unreal room, as they had stood once before, now, +standing, they were wrapt together. They were very young to feel such +depths of tragedy, to touch such heights of beauty. They were a long +time there together. + +"Margaret darling, you know that I will come back." + +"I know that you will come back." + +"Olva!" + +"Margaret!" + +He left her. + +Then, standing with outstretched arms, alone there, she who had but now +denied the Pursuer, cried to the dark room-- + +"God, God--send him back to me!" + +Some one promised her. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +FIRST CHAPTER + +The sun was rising, hard and red, over Sannet Wood and the white frozen +flats, when Olva Dune set out. . . . + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Prelude to Adventure, by Hugh Walpole + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE *** + +***** This file should be named 19085-8.txt or 19085-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/0/8/19085/ + +Produced by Andrew Hodson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Prelude to Adventure + +Author: Hugh Walpole + +Release Date: August 20, 2006 [EBook #19085] +Last Updated: September 3, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE *** + + + + +Etext produced by Andrew Hodson + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE + </h1> + <h2> + By Hugh Walpole + </h2> + <h3> + Macmillan And Co., Limited, St. Martin's Street, London + </h3> + <h4> + <i>New Edition September</i>,1919 + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + TO MY FRIEND R. A. STREATFIELD + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Up vistaed hopes I sped; + And shot, precipitated Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, + From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. + But with unhurrying chase, + And unperturbed pace, + Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, + They beat—and a Voice beat + More instant than the Feet— + All things betray thee, who betrayest Me. + + The Hound of Heaven. + + 16 HALLAM STREET, + <i>October</i> 11, 1911. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I — LAST CHAPTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II — BUNNING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III — THE BODY COMES TO TOWN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV — MARGARET CRAVEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V — STONE ALTARS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI — THE WATCHERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII — TERROR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII — REVELATION OF BUNNING (I) + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX — REVELATION OF BUNNING (II) + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X — CRAVEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI — FIFTH OF NOVEMBER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII — LOVE TO THE "VALSE TRISTE" + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII — MRS. CRAVEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV — GOD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV — PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI — OLVA AND MARGARET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII — FIRST CHAPTER </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I — LAST CHAPTER + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + "There <i>is</i> a God after all." That was the immense conviction that + faced him as he heard, slowly, softly, the leaves, the twigs, settle + themselves after that first horrid crash which the clumsy body had made. + </p> + <p> + Olva Dune stood for an instant straight and stiff, his arms heavily at his + side, and the dank, misty wood slipped back once more into silence. There + was about him now the most absolute stillness: some trees dripped in the + mist; far above him, on the top of the hill, the little path showed darkly—below + him, in the hollow, black masses of fern and weed lay heavily under the + chill November air—at his feet there was the body. + </p> + <p> + In that sudden after silence he had known beyond any question that might + ever again arise, that there was now a God—God had watched him. + </p> + <p> + With grave eyes, with hands that did not tremble, he surveyed and then, + bending, touched the body. He knelt in the damp, heavy soil, tore open the + waistcoat, the shirt; the flesh was yet warm to his touch—the heart + was still. Carfax was dead. + </p> + <p> + It had happened so instantly. First that great hulking figure in front of + him, the sneering laugh, that last sentence, "Let her rot . . . my dear + Dune, your chivalry does you credit." Then that black, blinding, surging + rage and the blow that followed. He did not know what he had intended to + do. It did not matter—only in the force that there had been in his + arm there had been the accumulated hatred of years, hatred that dated from + that first term at school thirteen years ago when he had known Carfax for + the dirty hypocrite that he was. He could not stay now to think of the + many things that had led to this climax. He only knew that as he raised + himself again from the body there was with him no feeling of repentance, + no suggestion of fear, only a grim satisfaction that he had struck so + hard, and, above all, that lightning certainty that he had had of God. + </p> + <p> + His brain was entirely alert. He did not doubt, as he stood there, that he + would be caught and delivered and hanged. He, himself, would take no steps + to prevent such a catastrophe. He would leave the body there as it was: + to-night, to-morrow they would find it,—the rest would follow. He + was, indeed, acutely interested in his own sensations. Why was it that he + felt no fear? Where was the terror that followed, as he had so often + heard, upon murder? Why was it that the dominant feeling in him should be + that at last he had justified his existence? In that furious blow there + had leapt within him the creature that he had always been—the + creature subdued, restrained, but always there—there through all + this civilized existence; the creature that his father was, that his + grandfather, that all his ancestors, had been. He looked down. The hulking + body that had been Carfax made a hollow in the wet and broken fern. The + face was white, stupid, the cheeks hanging fat, horrible, the eyes + staring. One leg was twisted beneath the body. Still in the air there + seemed to linger that startled little cry—"Oh!"—surprise, + wonder—and then fading miserably into nothing as the great body + fell. + </p> + <p> + Such a huge hulking brute; now so sordid and useless, looking at last, + after all these years, the thing that it ought always to have looked. Some + money had rolled from the pocket and lay shining amongst the fern. A gold + ring glittered on the white finger, seeming in the heart of that silence + the only living note. + </p> + <p> + Then Olva remembered his dog—where was he? He turned and saw the fox + terrier down on all fours amongst the fern, motionless, his tongue out, + his eyes gazing with animal inquiry at his master. The dog was waiting for + the order to continue the walk. He seemed, in his passivity, merely to be + resting, a little exhausted perhaps by the heavy closeness of the day, too + indolent to nose amongst the leaves for possible adventure: Olva looked at + him. The dog caught the look and beat the grass with his tail, soft, + friendly taps to show that he only waited for orders. Then still idly, + still with that air of gentle amusement, the dog gazed at the thing in the + grass. He rose slowly and very delicately advanced a few steps: for an + instant some fear seemed to strike his heart for he stopped suddenly and + gazed into his master's face for reassurance. What he saw there comforted + him. Again he wagged his tail placidly and half closed his eyes in sleepy + indifference. + </p> + <p> + Then Olva, without another backward glance, left the hollow, crashed + through the fern up the hill and struck the little brown path. Bunker, the + dog, pattered patiently behind him. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + Olva Dune was twenty-three years of age. He was of Spanish descent, and it + was only within the last two generations that English blood had mingled + with the Dune stock. He was of no great height, slim and dark. His hair + was black, his complexion sallow, and on his upper lip he wore a small + dark moustache. His ears were small, his mouth thin, his chin sharply + pointed, but his eyes, large, dark brown, were his best feature. They were + eyes that looked as though they held in their depths the possibility of + tenderness. He walked as an athlete, there was no spare flesh about him + anywhere, and in his carriage there was a dignity that had in it pride of + birth, complete self-possession, and above all, contempt for his + fellow-creatures. + </p> + <p> + He despised all the world save only his father. He had gone through his + school-life and was now passing through his college-life as a man travels + through a country that has for him no interest and no worth but that may + lead, once it has been traversed, to something of importance and + adventure. He was now at the beginning of his second year at Cambridge and + was regarded by every one with distrust, admiration, excitement. His was + one of the more interesting personalities at that time in residence at + Saul's. + </p> + <p> + He had come with a historical scholarship and a great reputation as a + Three-quarter from Rugby. He was considered to be a certain First Class + and a certain Rugby Blue; he, lazily and indifferently during the course + of his first term, discouraged both these anticipations. He attended no + lectures, received a Third Class in his May examinations, and was deprived + of his scholarship at the end of his first year. He played brilliantly in + the Freshmen's Rugby match, but so indolently in the first University + match of the season that he was not invited again. Had he played merely + badly he would have been given a second trial, but his superior insolence + was considered insulting. He never played in any College matches nor did + he trouble to watch any of their glorious conflicts. Once and again he + produced an Essay for his Tutor that astonished that gentleman very + considerably, but when called before the Dean for neglecting to attend + lectures explained that he was studying the Later Roman Empire and could + not possibly attend to more than one thing at a time. + </p> + <p> + He was perfectly friendly to every one, and it was curious that, with his + air of contempt for the world in general, he had made no enemies. He + wondered at that himself, on occasions; he had always been supposed, for + instance, to be very good friends with Carfax. He had, of course, always + hated Carfax—and now Carfax was dead. + </p> + <p> + The little crooked path soon left the dark wood and merged into the long + white Cambridge road. The flat country was veiled in mist, only, like a + lantern above a stone wall, the sun was red over the lower veils of white + that rose from the sodden fields. Some trees started like spies along the + road. Overhead, where the mists were faint, the sky showed the faintest of + pale blue. The long road rang under Olva's step—it would be a frosty + night. + </p> + <p> + When the little wood was now a black ball in the mist Olva was suddenly + sick. He leant against one of the dark mysterious trees and was + wretchedly, horribly ill. Slowly, then, the colour came back to his + cheeks, his hands were once more steady, he could see again clearly. He + addressed the strange world about him, the long flat fields, the hard + white road, the orange sun. "That is the last time," he said aloud, "the + last weakness." + </p> + <p> + He definitely braced himself to face life. There would not be much of it—to-morrow + he would be arrested: meanwhile there should be no more of these + illusions. There was, for instance, the illusion that the body was + following him, bounding grotesquely along the hard road. He knew that + again and again he turned his head to see whether anything were there, and + the further the little wood was left behind the nearer did the body seem + to be. He must not allow himself to think these things. Carfax was dead—Carfax + was dead—Carfax was dead. It was a good thing that Carfax was dead. + He had saved, he hoped, Rose Midgett—that at any rate he had done; + it was a good thing for Rose Midgett that he had killed Carfax. He had, + incidentally, no interest on his own account in Rose Midgett—he + scarcely knew her by sight—but it was pleasant to think that she + would be no longer worried. . . . + </p> + <p> + Then there was that question about God. Now the river appeared, darkly, + dimly below the road, the reeds rising spire-like towards the faint blue + sky. That question about God—Olva had never believed in any kind of + a God. His father had defied God and the Devil time and again and had been + none the worse for it. And yet—here and there about the world people + lived and had their being to whom this question of God was a vital + question; people like Bunning and his crowd—mad, the whole lot of + them. Nevertheless there was something there that had great power. That + had, until to-day, been Olva's attitude, an amused superior curiosity. + </p> + <p> + Now it was a larger question. There had been that moment after Carfax had + fallen, a moment of intense silence, and in that moment something had + spoken to Olva. It is a fact as sure as concrete, as though he himself + could remember words and gesture. There had been Something there. . . . + </p> + <p> + Brushing this for an instant aside, he faced next the question of his + arrest. There was no one, save his father, for whom he need think. He + would send his father word saying—"I have killed a beast—fairly—in + the open"—that would be all. + </p> + <p> + He would not be hanged—poison should see to that. Dunes had + murdered, raped, tortured—never yet had they died on the gallows. + </p> + <p> + And now, for the first time, the suspicion crossed his mind that perhaps, + after all, he might escape—escape, at any rate, that order of + punishment. Here on this desolate road, he had met no living soul; the + mists encompassed him and they had now swallowed the dripping wood and all + that it contained. It had always been supposed that he was good friends + with Carfax, as good friends as he allowed himself to be with any one. No + one had known in which direction he would take his walk; he had come upon + Carfax entirely by chance. It might quite naturally be supposed that some + tramp had attempted robbery. To the world at large Olva could have had no + possible motive. But, for the moment, these thoughts were dismissed. It + seemed to him just now immaterial whether he lived or died. Life had not + hitherto been so wonderful a discovery that the making of it had been + entirely worth while. He had no tenor of disgrace; his father was his only + court of appeal, and that old rocky sinner, sitting alone with his proud + spirit and his grey hairs, in his northern fastness, hating and despising + the world, would himself slay, had he the opportunity, as many men of the + Carfax kind as he could find. He had no terror of pain—he did not + know what that kind of fear was. The Dunes had always faced Death. + </p> + <p> + But he began, dimly, now to perceive that there were larger, crueller + issues before him than these material punishments. He had known since he + was a tiny child a picture by some Spanish painter, whose name he had + forgotten, that had always hung on the wall of the passage opposite his + bedroom. It was a large engraving in sharply contrasted black and white, + of a knight who rode through mists along a climbing road up into the heart + of towering hills. The mountains bad an active life in the picture; they + seemed to crowd forward eager to swallow him. Beside the spectre horse + that he rode there was no other life. The knight's face, white beneath his + black helmet, was tired and worn. About him was the terror of loneliness. + </p> + <p> + From his earliest years this idea of loneliness had pleasantly seized upon + Olva's mind. His father had always impressed upon him that the Dunes had + ever been lonely—lonely in a world that was contemptible. He had + always until now accepted this idea and found it confirmed on every side. + His six years at Rugby had encouraged him—he had despised, with his + tolerant smile, boys and masters alike; all insincere, all weak, all to be + used, if he wanted them, as he chose to use them. He had thought often of + the lonely knight—that indeed should be his attitude to the world. + </p> + <p> + But now, suddenly, as the scattered Cambridge houses with their dull + yellow lights began to creep stealthily through the mist, upon the road, + he knew for the first time that loneliness could be terrible. He was + hurrying now, although he had not formerly been conscious of it, hurrying + into the lights and comforts and noise of the town. There might only be + for him now a night and day of freedom, but, during that time, he must + not, he must not be alone. The patter of Bunker's feet beside him pleased + him. Bunker was now a fact of great importance to him. + </p> + <p> + And now he could see further. He could see that he must always now, from + the consciousness of the thing that he had done, he alone. The actual + moment of striking his blow had put an impassable gulf between his soul + and all the world. Bodies might touch, hands might be grasped, voices ring + together, always now his soul must be alone. Only, that Something—of + whose Presence he had been, in that instant, aware—could keep his + company. They two . . . they two. . . . + </p> + <p> + The suburbs of Cambridge had closed about him. Those dreary little + streets, empty as it seemed of all life, facing him sullenly with their + sodden little yellow lamps, shivering, grumbling, he could fancy, in the + chill of that November evening, eyed him with suspicion. He walked through + them now, with his shoulders back, his head up. He could fancy how, + to-morrow, their dull placidity would be wrung by the discovery of the + crime. The little wood would fling its secret into the eager lap of these + decrepit witches; they would crowd to their doors, chatter it, shout it, + pull it to pieces. "Body of an Undergraduate . . . Body of an + Undergraduate. . . ." + </p> + <p> + He turned out of their cold silence over the bridge that spanned the + river, up the path that crossed the common into the heart of the town, + Here, at once, he was in the hubbub. The little streets were mediaeval in + their narrow space, in their cobbles, in the old black, fantastic walls + that hung above them. Beauty, too, on this November evening, shone through + the misty lamplight. Beauty in the dark purple of the evening sky, beauty + in the sudden vista of grey courts with lighted windows, like eyes, seen + through stone gateways. Beauty in the sudden golden shadows of some corner + shop glittering through the mist; beauty in the overshadowing of the many + towers that were like grey clouds in mid-air. + </p> + <p> + The little streets chattered with people—undergraduates in Norfolk + jackets, grey flannel trousers short enough to show the brightest of + socks, walked arm in arm—voices rang out—men called across the + streets—hansoms rattled like little whirlwinds along the cobbles—-many + bells were ringing—dark bodies, leaning from windows, gave uncouth + cries . . . over it all the mellow lamplight. + </p> + <p> + Into this happy confusion Olva Dune plunged. He shook off from him, as a + dog shakes water from his back, the memory of that white mist-haunted + road. Once he deliberately faced the moment when he had been sick—faced + it, heard once again the dull, lumbering sound that the body had made as + it bundled along the road, and then put it from him altogether. Now for + battle . . . his dark eyes challenged this shifting cloud of life. + </p> + <p> + He went round to the stable where Bunker was housed, chattered with the + blue-chinned ostler, and then, for a moment, was alone with the dog. How + much had Bunker seen? How much had he understood? Was it fancy, or did the + dog crouch, the tiniest impulse, away from him as he bent to pat him? + Bunker was tired; he relapsed on to his haunches, wagged his tail, + grinned, but in his eyes there seemed, although the lamplight was + deceptive, to be the faintest shadow of an apprehension. + </p> + <p> + "Good old dog, good old Bunker." Bunker wagged his tail, but the tiniest + shiver passed, like a thought, through his body. + </p> + <p> + Olva left him. + </p> + <p> + As he passed through the streets he met men whom he knew. They nodded or + flung a greeting. How strange to think that to-morrow night they would be + speaking of him in low, grave voices as one who was already dead. "I knew + the fellow quite well, strange, reserved man—nobody really knew him. + With these foreigners, you know . . ." + </p> + <p> + Oh! he could hear them! + </p> + <p> + He passed through the gates of Saul's. The porter touched his hat. The + great Centre Court was shrouded in mist, and out of the white veil the + grey buildings rose, gently, on every side. There were lights now in the + windows; the Chapel bell was ringing, hushed and dimmed by the heavy air. + Boots rang sharply along the stone corridors. Olva crossed the court + towards his room. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, from the very heart of the mist, sharply, above the sound of the + Chapel bell, a voice called— + </p> + <p> + "Carfax! Carfax!" + </p> + <p> + Olva stayed: for an instant the blood ran from his body, his knees + quivered, his face was as white as the mist. Then he braced himself—he + knew the voice. + </p> + <p> + "Hullo, Craven, is that you?" + </p> + <p> + "Who's that? . . . Can't see in this mist." + </p> + <p> + "Dune." + </p> + <p> + "Hullo, Dune. I say, do you know what's happened to Carfax?" + </p> + <p> + "Happened? No—why?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, I can't find him anywhere. I wanted to get him for Bridge. He ought + to be back by now." + </p> + <p> + "Back? Where's he been?" + </p> + <p> + "Going over to see some aunt or other at Grantchester—ought to be + back by now." + </p> + <p> + An aunt?—No, Rose Midgett. + </p> + <p> + "No—I've no idea—haven't seen him since yesterday." + </p> + <p> + "Been out for a walk?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, just took my dog for a bit." + </p> + <p> + "See you in Hall?" + </p> + <p> + "Right—o!" + </p> + <p> + The voice began again calling under the windows—"Carfax! Carfax!" + </p> + <p> + Olva climbed the stairs to his rooms. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II — BUNNING + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + He went into Hall. He sat amongst the particular group of his own year who + were considered the <i>elite</i>. There was Cardillac there, brilliant, + flashing Cardillac. There was Bobby Galleon, fat, good-natured, sleepy, + intelligent in an odd bovine way. There was Craven, young, ardent, + hail-fellow-well-met. There was Lawrence, burly back for the University in + Rugby, unintelligent, kind and good-tempered unless he were drunk. + </p> + <p> + There were others. They all sat in their glory, noisily happy. Somewhere + in the distance on a raised dais were the Dons gravely pompous. Every now + and again word was brought that the gentlemen were making too much noise. + The Master might be observed drinking elaborately, ceremoniously with some + guest. Madden, the Service Tutor, flung his shrill treble voice above the + general hubbub— + </p> + <p> + "But, my dear Ross, if you had only observed—-" + </p> + <p> + "Where is Carfax?" came suddenly from Lawrence. He asked Craven, who was, + of course, the devoted friend of Carfax. Craven had large brown eyes, a + charming smile, a prominent chin, rather fat routed cheeks and short brown + hair that curled a little. He gave the impression of eager good-temper and + friendliness. To-night he looked worried. "I don't know," he said, "I + can't understand it. He said this morning that he'd be here to-night and + make up a four at Bridge. He went off to see an aunt or some one at + Grantchester!" + </p> + <p> + "Perhaps," said Bobby Galleon gravely, "he had an exeat and has gone up to + town." + </p> + <p> + "But he'd have said something—sure. And the porter hasn't seen him. + He would have been certain to know." + </p> + <p> + Olva was never expected to talk much. His reserve was indeed rather + popular. The entirely normal and ordinary men around him appreciated this + mystery. "Rum fellow, Dune . . . nobody knows him." His high dark colour, + his dignity, his courtesy had about it something distinguished and + romantic. "He'll do something wonderful one day, <i>you</i> bet. Why, if + he only chose to play up at footer there's nothing he couldn't do." + </p> + <p> + Even the brilliant Cardillac, thin, dark, handsome leader of fashion and + society, admitted the charm. + </p> + <p> + Now, however, Olva, looking up, quietly said— + </p> + <p> + "I expect his aunt's kept him to dinner. <i>He'll</i> turn up." + </p> + <p> + But of course he wouldn't turn up. He was lying in the heart of that + crushed, dripping fern with his leg doubled under him. It wasn't often + that one killed a man with one blow; the signet ring that he wore on the + little finger of his right hand—a Dune ring of great antiquity—must + have had something to do with it. + </p> + <p> + He turned it round thoughtfully on his finger. Robert, an old, old + trembling waiter, said in a shaking voice— + </p> + <p> + "There's salmi of wild game, sir—roast beef." + </p> + <p> + "Beef, please," Olva said quietly. + </p> + <p> + He was considering now that all these men would to-morrow night have only + one thought, one idea. They would remember everything, the very slightest + thing that he had done. They would discuss it all from every possible + point of view. + </p> + <p> + "I always knew he'd do something. . . ." He suddenly knew quite sharply, + as though a voice had spoken to him, that he could not endure this any + longer. There was gathering upon him the conviction that in a few minutes, + rising from his place, he would cry out to the hall—"I, Olva Dune, + this afternoon, killed Carfax. You will find his body in the wood." He + repeated the words to himself under his breath. "You will find his body in + the wood. . . ." "You will find . . ." + </p> + <p> + He finished his beef very quietly and then got up. + </p> + <p> + Craven appealed to him. "I say, Dune, do come and make a four—my + rooms, half-past eight—Lawrence and Galleon are the other two." + </p> + <p> + Olva looked down at him with his grave, rather melancholy smile. + </p> + <p> + "Afraid I can't to-night, Craven; must work." + </p> + <p> + "Don't overdo it," Cardillac said. + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the two men met. Olva knew that Cardillac—"Cards" as he + was to his friends, liked him; he himself did not hate Cardillac. He was + the only man in the College for whom he had respect. They were both of + them demanding the same thing from the world. They both of them despised + their fellow-creatures. + </p> + <p> + Olva, climbing the stairs to his room, stood for a moment in the dark, + before he turned on the lights. He spoke aloud in a whisper, as though + some one were with him in the room. + </p> + <p> + "This won't do," he said. "This simply won't do. Your nerves are going. + You've only got a few hours of it. Hold on—Think of the beast that + he was. Think of the beast that he was." + </p> + <p> + He walked slowly back to the door and turned on the electric lights. He + did not sport his oak—if people came to see him he would rather like + it: in some odd way it would be more satisfactory than that he should go + to see them—but people did not often come to see him. + </p> + <p> + He laid out his books on the table and sat down. He had grown fond of this + room. The walls were distempered white. The ceiling was old and black with + age. There was a deep red-tiled fireplace. One wall had low brown + bookshelves. There were two pictures: one an Around reprint of Matsys' + "Portrait of Aegidius"—that wise, kind, tender face; the other an + admirable photogravure of Durer's "Selbstbildnis." The books were mainly + to do with his favourite historical period—the Later Roman Empire. + There was some poetry—an edition of Browning, Swinburne's <i>Poems + and Ballads</i>, Ernest Dowson, Rossetti, Francis Thompson. There was an + edition of Hazlitt, a set of the <i>Spectator</i>, one or two novels, <i>Henry + Lessingham</i> and <i>The Roads</i> by Galleon, <i>To Paradise</i> by + Lester, Meredith's <i>One of Our Conquerors</i> and <i>Diana of the + Crossways, The Ambassadors</i> and <i>Awkward Age</i> of Henry James. + </p> + <p> + On the mantelpiece above the fireplace there were three deep blue bowls, + the only ornaments in the room. Beyond the little diamond-paned windows, + beyond the dark mysteries of the Fellows' garden, a golden mist rose from + the lamps of the street, there were stars in the sky. + </p> + <p> + He faced his books. For a quarter of an hour he saw before him the + hanging, baggy cheeks, the white, staring eyes, the glittering ring on the + weak finger. His hands began to tremble. . . . + </p> + <p> + There was a timid knock on the door, and he was instantly sure that the + body had been found, and that they had come to arrest him. He stood back + from the door with his hand pressing on the table. It was almost a relief + to him that the summons had come so soon—it would presently all be + over. + </p> + <p> + "Come in," he said, and gave one look at the golden mist, at the stars, at + the tender face of Aegidius. + </p> + <p> + The door was opened slowly with fumbling hands, and there stood there a + large, fat, clumsy, shapeless creature, with a white face, a hooked nose, + an open, foolish mouth. + </p> + <p> + The reaction was hysterical. To expect a summons to death and public + shame, to find—Bunning. Bunning—that soft, blithering, + emotional, religious, middle-class maniac—Bunning! "Soft-faced" + Bunning, as he was called, was the man of Olva's year in whom the world at + large found most entertainment. The son of some country clergyman, kicked + and battered through the slow, dreary years at some small Public School, + he had come up to Saul's with an intense, burning desire to make a mark. + He was stupid, useless at games, having only somewhere behind his fat ugly + body a longing to be connected with some cause, some movement, some person + of whom he might make a hero. + </p> + <p> + He had, of course, within the first fortnight of his arrival, plunged + himself into dire disgrace. He had asked Lawrence, coming like a young god + from Marlborough, in to coffee; they had made him drunk and laughed at his + hysterical tears: in his desire for popularity he had held a gathering in + his room, with the original intention of coffee, cakes and gentle + conversation; the evening had ended with the arrival of all his furniture + and personal effects upon the grass of the court below his windows. + </p> + <p> + He had been despised by the Dons, buffeted and derided by his fellow + undergraduates. Especially had Carfax and Cardillac made his life a burden + to him, and whenever it seemed that there was nothing especial to do, the + cry arose, "Let's go and rag Bunning," and five minutes later that fat + body would tremble at the sound of many men climbing the wooden stairs, at + the loud banging on his wooden door, at the cry, "Hullo, Bunning—we've + come for some coffee." + </p> + <p> + Then, towards the end of the first year, the Cambridge Christian Union + flung out its net and caught him. His attempt at personal popularity had + failed here as thoroughly as it had failed at school—now for his + soul. He found that the gentlemen of his college who were members of the + Christian Union were eager for his company. They did not laugh at his + conversation nor mock his proffered hospitalities. They talked to him, + persuaded him that his soul was in jeopardy, and carried him off during + part of the Long Vacation to the Norfolk Broads, where prayer-meetings, + collisions with other sea-faring craft, and tinned meats were the order of + the day. + </p> + <p> + Olva had watched him with that amused incredulity that he so frequently + bestowed upon his fellow-creatures. How was this kind of animal, with its + cowardice, its stupidity, its ugliness, its uselessness, possible? He had + never spoken to Bunning, although he had once received a note from him + asking him to coffee—a piece of very considerable impertinence. He + had never assisted Carfax and Cards in their raiding expeditions, but that + was only because he considered such things tiresome and childish. + </p> + <p> + And now, behold, there in his doorway—incredible vision!—was + the creature—at this moment of—all others! + </p> + <p> + "Come in," said Olva again. + </p> + <p> + Bunning brought his large quivering body into the room and stood there, + turning his cap round and round in his hands. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I say—-" and there he stopped. + </p> + <p> + "Won't you sit down?" + </p> + <p> + "No—thanks—I——" + </p> + <p> + "In what way can I be of use to you?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh! I say—-" + </p> + <p> + Senseless giggles, and then Bunning's mouth opened and remained open. His + eyes stared at Dune. + </p> + <p> + "Well, what is it?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh—my word—you know—-" + </p> + <p> + "Look here," said Olva quietly, "if you don't get on and tell me what you + want I shall do you some bodily damage. I've got work to do. Another time, + perhaps, when I am less busy——" + </p> + <p> + Bunning was nearly in tears. "Oh, yes, I know—it's most awful cheek—I——" + </p> + <p> + There was a desperate silence and then he plunged out with—"Well, + you know, I—that is—we-I—sort of wondered whether, you + know, you'd care—not if you're awfully busy of course—but + whether you'd care to come and hear Med. Tetloe preach to-night. I know + it's most awful cheek——" He was nearly in tears. + </p> + <p> + Olva kept an amazed silence. Life! What an amusing thing!—that he, + with his foot on the edge of disaster, death, should be invited by Bunning + to a revival meeting. He understood it, of course. Bunning had been sent, + as an ardent missionary is sent into the heart of West Africa, to invite + Olva to consider his soul. He was expecting, poor creature, to be kicked + violently down the twisting wooden stairs. On another occasion he would be + sent to Lawrence or Cardillac, and then his expectations would be most + certainly fulfilled. But it was for the cause—at least these sinners + should be given the opportunity of considering their souls. If they + refused to consider them, they must not complain if they find the next + world but little to their fancy. + </p> + <p> + No one had ever attacked Olva before on this subject. His reserve had been + more alarming to the Soul Hunters than the coarse violence of a Cardillac + or a Carfax. And now Bunning—Bunning of all people in this + ridiculous world—had ventured. Well, there was pluck necessary for + that. Bunning, the coward, had done a braver thing than many more stalwart + men would have cared to do. There was bravery there! + </p> + <p> + Moreover, why should not Olva go? He could not sit alone in his room, his + nerves would soon be too many for him. What did it matter? His last + evening of freedom should be spent as no other evening of his life had + been spent. . . . Moreover, might there not be something behind this + business? Might he not, perhaps, be shown to-night some clue to the + presence of that Power that had spoken to him in the wood? Through all the + tangled confusion of his thoughts, through the fear and courage there ran + this note-where was God? . . . God the only person to Whom he now could + speak, because God knew. + </p> + <p> + Might not this idiot of a Bunning have been shown the way to the mystery? + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said Olva, smiling. "I'll come, if you won't mind sitting down and + smoking for a quarter of an hour, while I finish this—have a drink, + will you?" + </p> + <p> + Bunning's consternation at Olva's acceptance was amusing. He dropped his + cap, stopped to pick it up, gasped. That Dune should really come! + </p> + <p> + "You'll come?" he spluttered out. Never in his wildest imaginings had he + fancied such a thing. Dune, the most secret, reserved, mysterious man in + the college—Dune, whose sarcastic smile was considered more + terrifying than Lawrence's mailed fist—Dune, towards whom in the + back of his mind there had been paid that reverence that belongs only to + those who are of another world. + </p> + <p> + Never, in anything that had happened to him, had Bunning been so terrified + as he had been by this visit to Dune. Watson Morley, the Christian Union + man, had insisted that it was his duty and therefore he had come, but it + had taken him ten minutes of agony to climb those stairs. And now Dune had + accepted. . . . + </p> + <p> + The colour flooded his cheeks and faded again. He sat down clumsily in a + chair, felt for a pipe that he smoked unwillingly because it was the manly + thing to do, spurted some Apollinaris into a glass and over the + tablecloth, struck many matches vainly, dropped tobacco on to the carpet. + His heart was beating like a hammer! + </p> + <p> + How men would stare when they saw him with Dune. In his heart was the + uneasy knowledge that had Dune proposed staying there in his rooms and + talking instead of going to Little St. Agnes and listening to the Reverend + Med. Tetloe, he would have stayed. This was not right, it was not + Christian. The world gaped below Bunning's heavy feet. + </p> + <p> + At last Dune said: "I'm ready, let's go." They went out. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + Little St. Agnes was apparently so named because it was the largest church + in Cambridge. It was of no ancient date, but it was grim, grey, dark—admirably + suited to an occasion like the present. Under the high roof, lost in a + grey cloud, resolving themselves into rows of white, intense faces, sat + hundreds of undergraduates. + </p> + <p> + They were seated on uncomfortable, unstable chairs, and the noise of their + uneasy movements sent squeaks up and down the building as though it had + been a barn filled with terrified rats. + </p> + <p> + Far in the distance, perched on a high pulpit, was a little white figure—an + old gaunt man with a bony hand and a grey beard. Behind him again there + was darkness. Only, in all the vast place, the white body and rows of + white faces raised to it. + </p> + <p> + Olva and Bunning found seats in a corner. A slight soft voice said, with + the mysterious importance of one about to deliver an immense secret, "You + will look in the Mission Books, Hymn 330. 'Oh! for the arms of Jesus.' I + want you to think for a moment of the meaning of the words before you + sing." + </p> + <p> + There followed the rustling of many pages and then a heavy, emotional + silence. Olva read the words and found them very sentimental, very bad + verse and rather unpleasantly fall of blood and pain. Every one stood; the + chairs creaked from one end of the building to the other, an immense + volume of sound rose to the roof. + </p> + <p> + Olva felt that the entire church was seized with emotion. He saw that + Bunning's hand was trembling, he knew that many eyes were filled with + tears. For himself, he understood at once that that distant figure in + white was here to make a dramatic appeal—dramatic as certainly as + the appeal that a famous actor might make in London. That was his job— + he was out for it—-and anything in the way of silence or noise, of + darkness or light, that could add to the effect would be utilized. Olva + knew also that nine-tenths of the undergraduates were present there for + the same purpose. They wished to have their emotions played upon; they + wished also to be reassured about life; they wished to confuse this + dramatic emotion with a sincere desire for salvation. They wished, it is + true, to be good, but they wished, a great deal more, to be dramatically + stirred. + </p> + <p> + Olva was reminded of the tensity of the atmosphere at a bull-fight that he + had once seen in Madrid. Here again was the same intensity. . . . + </p> + <p> + He saw, therefore, in this first singing of the hymn, that this place, + this appeal, would be of no use in his own particular need. This + deliberate evoking of dramatic effect had nothing to do with that silent + consciousness of God. This place, this appeal, was fantastic, childish, + beside that event that had that afternoon sent Carfax into space. Let + these men hurry to the wood, let them find the sodden body, let them face + then the reality of Life. . . . + </p> + <p> + Again, as before in Hall, he was tempted to rise and cry out: "I have + killed Carfax. I have killed Carfax. What of all your theories now?" That + trembling ass, Bunning, singing now at the top of his voice, shaking with + the fervour of it, let him know that he had brought a murderer to the + sacred gathering—again Olva had to concentrate all his mind, his + force, his power upon the conquest of his nerves. For a moment it seemed + as though he would lose all control; he stood, his knees quivering beneath + him—then strength came back to him. + </p> + <p> + After the hymn the address. There was tense, rapt silence. The little + voice went on, soft, low, sweet, pleading, very clear. There must be many + men who had not yet found God. There were those, perhaps, in the Church + tonight who had not even thought about God. There were those again who, + maybe, had some crime on their conscience and did not know how to get rid + of it. Would they not come to Christ and ask His help? + </p> + <p> + Stories were told. Story of the young man who cursed his mother, broke his + leg, and arrived home just too late to see her alive. Story of the friend + who died to save another friend, and how many souls were saved by this + self-sacrifice. Story of the Undergraduate who gambled and drank and was + converted by a barmaid and eventually became a Bishop. + </p> + <p> + All these examples of God's guidance. Then, for an instant, there is a + great silence. The emotion is now beating in waves against the wall. The + faces are whiter now, hands are clenched, lips bitten. Suddenly there + leaps upon them all that gentle voice, now a trumpet. "Who is for the + Lord? Who is for the Lord?" + </p> + <p> + Then gently again,—"Let us pray in silence for a few minutes." . . . + A great creaking of chairs, more intense silence. At last the voice again—"Will + those who are sure that they are saved stand up?" Dead silence—no + one moves. "Will those who wish to be saved stand up?" With one movement + every one—save only Olva, dark in his corner—stands up. + Bunning's eyes are flaming, his body is trembling from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + "Christ is amongst you! Christ is in the midst of you!" + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, somewhere amongst the shadows a voice breaks out—"Oh! my + God! Oh! my God!" Some one is crying—some one else is crying. All + about the building men are falling on to their knees. Bunning has crashed + on to his—his face buried in his hands. + </p> + <p> + The little gentle voice again—"I shall be delighted to speak to any + of those whose consciences are burdened. If any who wish to see me would + wait. . . ." + </p> + <p> + The souls are caught for God. + </p> + <p> + Prayers followed, another hymn. Bunning with red eyes has contemplated his + sins and is in a glow of excited repentance. It is over. + </p> + <p> + As Olva rose to leave the building he knew that this was not the path for + which he was searching. Not here was that terrible Presence. . . . The men + poured in a black crowd out into the night. As Olva stepped into the + darkness he knew that the terror was only now beginning for him. Standing + there now with no sorrow, remorse, repentance, nevertheless he knew that + all night, alone in his room, he would be fighting with devils. . . . + </p> + <p> + Bunning, nervously, stammered—"If you don't mind—I think I'm + going round for a minute." + </p> + <p> + Olva nodded good-night. As he went on his way to Saul's, grimly, it seemed + humorous that "soft-faced" Bunning should be going to confess his thin, + miserable little sins. + </p> + <p> + For him, Olva Dune, only a dreadful silence. . . . + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III — THE BODY COMES TO TOWN + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + And after all he slept, slept dreamlessly. He woke to the comfortable + accustomed voices of Mrs. Ridge, his bedmaker, and Miss Annett, her + assistant. It was a cold frosty morning; the sky showed through the window + a cloudless blue. + </p> + <p> + He could hear the deep base voice of Mrs. Ridge in her favourite phrase: + "Well, I <i>don't</i> think, Miss Annett. You won't get over me," and Miss + Annett's mildly submissive, "I should think <i>not</i> indeed, Mrs. + Ridge." + </p> + <p> + Lying back in bed he surveyed with a mild wonder the fact that he had + thus, easily, slept. He felt, moreover, that that body had already, in the + division of to-day from yesterday, lost much of its haunting power. In the + clean freshness of the day, in the comfort of the casual voices of the two + women in the other room, in the smell of the coffee, yesterday's melodrama + seemed incredible. It had never happened; soon he would see from his + window Carfax's hulking body cross the court. No, it was real enough, only + it did not concern him. He watched it, as a spectator, indifferent, + callous. There <i>was</i> a change in his life, but it was a change of + another kind. In the strange consciousness that he now had of some vast + and vital Presence, the temporal fact of the thing that he had done lost + all importance. There was something that he had got to find, to discover. + If—and the possibility seemed large now in the air of this brilliant + morning—he were, after all, to escape, he would not rest until he + had made his discovery. Some new life was stirring within him. He wanted + now to fling himself amongst men; he would play football, he would take + his place in the college, he would test everything—leave no stone + unturned. No longer a cynical observer, he would be an adventurer . . . if + they would let him alone. + </p> + <p> + He got out of bed, stripped, and stood over his bath. The cold air beat + upon his skin; he rejoiced in the sense of his fitness, in the movement of + his muscles, in the splendid condition of his body. If this were to be the + last day of his freedom, it should at any rate be a splendid day. + </p> + <p> + He had his bath, flung on a shirt and trousers and went into his + sitting-room, bright now with the morning sun, so that the blue bowls and + the red tiles shone, and even the dark face of Aegidius was lighted with + the gleam. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Ridge was short and stout, with white hair, a black bonnet, and the + deepest of voices. Her eagerness to deliver herself of all the things that + she wanted to say prevented full-stops and commas from being of any use to + her. Miss Annett was admirably suited as a companion, being long, thin and + silent, and intended by nature to be subservient to the more masterful of + her sex. With any man she was able easily to hold her own; with Mrs. Ridge + she was bending, bowed, humility. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Ridge grinned like a dog at the appearance of Olva. "Good mornin', + sir, and a nice frosty cold sort o' day it is with Miss Annett just + breakin' one of your cups, sir, 'er 'ands bein' that cold and a cup bein' + an easy thing to slip out of the 'and as you must admit yourself, sir. + Pore Miss Annett is <i>that</i> distressed." + </p> + <p> + Miss Annett did indeed look downcast. "I can't think—-" she began. + </p> + <p> + "It's quite all right, Miss Annett," said Olva. "I think it's wonderful + that you break the things as seldom as you do. The china was of no kind of + value." + </p> + <p> + It was known in the college that Mr. Dune was the only gentleman of whom + Mrs. Ridge could be said to be afraid; she was proud of him and frightened + of him. She said to Miss Annett, when that lady made her first appearance— + </p> + <p> + "And I can tell <i>you</i>, Miss Annett, that you need never 'ave no fear + of bein' introjuced to Royalty one of these days after bein' with that Mr. + Dune, because it puts you in practice, I can tell you, and a nice spoken + gentleman 'e is and <i>quiet</i>—never does a thing 'e shouldn't, + but wicked under it all I'll be bound. 'E's no chicken, you take it from + me. Born yesterday? I <i>don't</i> think. . . ." + </p> + <p> + The women faded away, and he was left to himself. After breakfast he + thought that he would write to his father and give him an account of the + thing that he had done; if he escaped suspicion he would tear it up. Also + he was determined on two things: one was that if he were accused of the + crime, he would at once admit everything; the other was that he would do + his utmost, until he was accused, to lead his life exactly as though he + were in no way concerned. He had now an odd assurance that it was not by + his public condemnation that he was intended to work out the results of + his act. Why was he so assured of that? What was it that was now so + strangely moving him? He faced the world, armed, resolved. It seemed to + him that it was important for him, now, to live. This was the first moment + of his life that existence had appeared to be of any moment. He wanted + time to continue his search. + </p> + <p> + He wrote to his father—- + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MY DEAR FATHER,—- + + I have just been arrested on the charge of murdering an undergraduate +here called Carfax. It is quite true that I killed him. We met +yesterday, in the country, quarrelled, and I struck him, hitting him on +the chin. He fell instantly, breaking his neck. He was muck of the worst +kind. I had known him at Rugby; he was always a beast of the lowest +order. He was ruining a fellow here, taking his money, making him drink, +doing for him; also ruining a girl in a tobacconist's shop. All this was +no business of mine, but we had always loathed one another. I think when +I hit him I wanted to kill him. I am not, in any way, sorry, except that +suddenly I do not want to die. You are the only person in the world for +whom I care; you will understand. I have not disgraced the name; it was +killing a rat. I think that you had better not come to see me. I face it +better alone. We have gone along well together, you and I. I send you my +love. Good-bye, OLVA. +</pre> + <p> + As he finished it, he wondered, Would this be sent? Would they come for + him? Perhaps, at this moment, they had found the body. He put the letter + carefully in the pocket of his shirt. Then, suddenly, he was confronted + with the risk. Suppose that he were to be taken ill, to faint, to forget + the thing. . . . No, the letter must wait. They would allow him to write, + if the time came. + </p> + <p> + He took the letter, flung it into the fire, watched it burn. He felt as + though, in the writing of it, he had communicated with his father. The old + man would understand. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + About eleven o'clock Craven came to see him. Craven's father had been a + Fellow of Trinity and Professor of Chinese to the University. He had died + some five years ago and now the widow and young Craven's sister lived in + Cambridge. Craven had tried, during his first term, to make a friend of + Olva, but his happy, eager attitude to the whole world had seemed crude + and even priggish to Olva's reserve, and all Craven's overtures had been + refused, quietly, kindly, but firmly. Craven had not resented the repulse; + it was not his habit to resent anything, and as the year had passed, Olva + had realized that Craven's impetuous desire for the friendship of the + world was something in him perfectly natural and unforced. Olva had + discovered also that Craven's devotion to his mother and sister was the + boy's leading motive in life. Olva had only seen the girl, Margaret, once; + she had been finishing her education in Dresden, and he remembered her as + dark, reserved, aloof—opposite indeed from her brother's cheerful + good-fellowship. But for Rupert Craven this girl was his world; she was + obviously cleverer, more temperamental than he, and he felt this and bowed + to it. + </p> + <p> + These things Olva liked in him, and had the boy not been so intimate with + Cardillac and Carfax, Olva might have made advances, Craven took a man of + the Carfax type with extreme simplicity; he thought his geniality and + physical strength excused much coarseness and vulgarity. He was still + young enough to have the Public School code—the most amazing thing + in the history of the British nation—and because Carfax bruised his + way as a forward through many football matches, and fought a policeman on + Parker's Piece one summer evening, Rupert Craven thought him a jolly good + fellow. Carfax also had had probably, at the bottom of his dirty, ignoble + soul, more honest affection for Craven than for any one in the world. He + had tried to behave himself in that ingenuous youth's company. + </p> + <p> + Now young Craven, disturbed, unhappy, anxious, stood in Olva's door. + </p> + <p> + "I say, Dune, I hope I'm not disturbing you?" + </p> + <p> + "Not a bit." + </p> + <p> + "It's a rotten time to come." Craven came in and sat down. "I'm awfully + worried." + </p> + <p> + "Worried?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, about Carfax. No one knows what's happened to him. He may have gone + up to town, of course, but if he did he went without an exeat. Thompson + saw him go out about two-thirty yesterday afternoon—-was going to + Grantchester, because he yelled it back to Cards, who asked him where he + was off to—not been heard or seen since." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, he's sure to be all right," Olva said easily. + </p> + <p> + "He's up in town!" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I expect he is, but I don't know that that makes it any better. + There's some woman he's been getting in a mess with I know—didn't + say anything to me about it, but I heard of it from Cards." + </p> + <p> + "Well—" Olva slowly lit his pipe—"there's something else too. + He was always in with a lot of these roughs in the town—stable men + and the rest. He used to get tips from them, he always said, and he's had + awful rows with some of them before now. You know what a temper he's got, + especially when he's been drinking at all. I shouldn't wonder if he hadn't + a fight one fine day and got landed on the chin, or something, and left." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! Carfax can look after himself all right. He's used to that kind of + company." + </p> + <p> + Olva gazed, through the smoke of his pipe, dreamily into the fire. + </p> + <p> + "You don't like him," Craven said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Olva turned slowly in his chair and looked at him. "Why! What makes you + say that?" + </p> + <p> + "Something Carfax told me the other day. We were sitting one evening in + his room and he suddenly said to me, 'You know there <i>is</i> one fellow + in this place who hates me like poison—always has hated me.' I asked + him who it was. He said it was you. I was immensely surprised, because I'd + always thought you very good friends—as good friends as you ever are + with any one, Dune. You don't exactly take any of us to your breast, you + know!" + </p> + <p> + Dune smiled. "No, I think I've made a mistake in keeping so much alone. It + looks as though I thought myself so damned superior. But I assure you + Carfax was—is—quite wrong. We've been friendly enough all our + days." + </p> + <p> + "No," said Craven slowly, "I don't think you do like him. I've watched you + since. He's an awfully good fellow—-really—-at heart, you + know. I do hope things are all right. I sent off a wire to his uncle in + town half an hour ago to ask whether he were there. I don't know why I'm + so anxious. . . . It's all right, of course, but I'm uneasy." + </p> + <p> + "Well, you're quite wrong about my disliking Carfax," Olva went on. "And I + think, altogether, it's about time I came off my perch. For one thing I'm + going to take up Rugger properly." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, but that's splendid! Will you play against St. Martin's to-morrow? It + will relieve Lawrence like anything if you will. They've got Cards, + Worcester and Tundril, and they want a fourth Three badly. My word, Dune, + that would be splendid. We'll have you a Blue after all." + </p> + <p> + "A little late for that, I'm afraid." + </p> + <p> + "Not a bit of it. They keep on changing the Threes. Of course Cards is + having a good shot at it, but he isn't down against the Harlequins on + Saturday, and mighty sick he is about it." Craven got up to go. "Well, I + must be moving. Perhaps Carfax is back in his rooms. There may be word of + him anyway." + </p> + <p> + Olva's pipe was out. The matchbox on the mantelpiece was empty. He felt in + his pocket for the little silver box that he always carried. It was a box, + with the Dune arms stamped upon it, that his father had given to him. He + had it, he remembered, yesterday when he set out on his walk. He felt in + all his pockets. These were the clothes that he was wearing yesterday. + Perhaps it was in his bedroom. He went in to look, and Craven meanwhile + watched him from the door. + </p> + <p> + "What have you lost?" + </p> + <p> + "Nothing." + </p> + <p> + It was not in the bedroom. He felt in the overcoat that he had been + wearing. It was not there. + </p> + <p> + "Nothing. It's a matchbox of mine—must have dropped out of a + pocket." + </p> + <p> + "Sorry. Daresay it will turn up. Well, see you later." + </p> + <p> + Craven vanished; then suddenly put his head in through the door. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I say, Dune, come in to supper to-morrow night. Home I mean. My + sister's back from Dresden, and I'd like you to know her. I'm sure you'd + get on." + </p> + <p> + "Thanks very much, I'd like to come." Olva stood in the centre of the + room, his hands clenched, his face white. He must have dropped the box in + the wood. He had it on his walk, he had lit his pipe. . . . Of course they + would find it. Here then was the end. Now for the first time the horror of + death came upon him, filing the room, turning it black, killing the fire, + the colour. His body was frozen with horror—already his throat was + choking, his eyes burning. The room swung slowly round him, turning, + turning. "They shan't take me. . . . They shan't take me." His face was + cruel, his mouth twisted. He saw the little silver box lying there, open, + exposed, upon the grass, glittering against the dull green. He turned to + the window with desperate, hunted eyes. Already he fancied that he heard + their steps upon the stair. He stood, his body flung back, his hands + pressing upon the table. "They shan't take me. . . . They shan't take me." + The door turned, slowly opened. It was Mrs. Ridge with a duster. He gave a + little sigh and rolled over, tumbling back against the chair, unconscious. + </p> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> + <p> + "There, sir, now I <i>do</i> 'ope as you'll be all right. Too much + book-work, <i>that's</i> what it is, but if a doctor——" + </p> + <p> + Olva was lying in his chair now, very pale, his eyes closed. + </p> + <p> + "No, thank you, Mrs. Ridge. It's all right now, thank you—quite all + right. Yes, I'm ready for lunch—very silly of me." + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Ridge departed to fetch the luncheon-dish from the College kitchens + and to tell the porter Thompson all about it on the way. "Pore young + gentleman, there 'e was as you might say white as a sheet all of a 'eap. + It gave me a turn <i>I</i> can assure you, Mr. Thompson." + </p> + <p> + His lunch was untasted. It seemed to him that he had now lost all power of + control. He could only face the inevitable fact of his approaching + capture. The sudden discovery of the loss of the matchbox had clanged the + facts about his ears with the discordant scream of closing gates. He was + captured, caught irretrievably, like a rat in a trap. He did not wish to + be caught like a rat in a trap. This was a free world. Air, light, colour + were about him on every side. To die, fighting, on a hill-top, in a + battle-field, that was one thing. To see them crowding into his room, to + be dragged into a dark airless place, to be caught by the neck and + throttled. . . . + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Ridge cleared away the lunch with much shaking of the head. Olva lay + in his chair watching, with eyes that never closed nor stirred, the + crackling golden fire. Beyond the window the world was of blue steel. He + could fancy the still gleaming waters of the lake that stretched beyond + the grass lawns; he could fancy the red brick of the buildings that clung + like some frieze to the horizon. Along the stone courtyard rang the heavy + football boots of men going to the Upper Fields. He could see their red + and blue jerseys, their short blue trousers, their tight stockings—the + healthy swing of their bodies as they tramped. Men would be going down to + the river now—freshmen would be hearing reluctantly, some of them + with tears, the coarse and violent criticism of the Third Year men who + were tabbing them. All the world was moving. He was surrounded, there in + his silent room, with an amazing sense of life. He seemed to realize, for + the first time, what it was that Cambridge was doing . . . all this + physical life marching through the cold bright air, strength, poetry, the + great stir and enthusiasm of the Young Blood of the world . . . and he, + waiting for those steps on the stair, for those grim faces in the open + door. The world left him alone. As the afternoon advanced, the tramp of + the footballers was no longer heard, silence, bound by the shining frost + of the beautiful day, lay about the grey buildings. Soon a melody of + thrumming kettles would rise into the air, in every glowing room tea would + be preparing, the glorious luxury of rest after stinging exercise would + fill the courts with worship, unconsciously driven, skywards, to the + Powers of Health. And then, after years of time, as it seemed, faintly + through the closed windows at last came the single note of St. Martin's + bell. That meant that it was quarter to five. Almost unconsciously he + rose, put on his cap and gown and passed through the twilit streets that + were stealing now into a dim glow under their misty lamps. The great + chapel of St. Martin's, planted like some couchant animal grey and + mysterious against the blue of the evening sky, flung through its windows + the light of its many candles. He found a seat at the back of the dark + high-hanging ante-chapel. He was alone there. Towards the inner chapel the + white-robed choir moved softly; for a moment the curtains were drawn aside + revealing the misty candle-light within; the white choir passed through—the + curtains Fell again, leaving Olva alone with the great golden trumpeting + angels above the organ for his company. + </p> + <p> + Then great peace came upon him. Some one had taken his soul, softly, with + gentle hands, and was caring for it. He was suddenly freed from + responsibility, and as the soothing comfort stole about him he knew that + now he had simply to wait to be shown what it was that he must do. This + was not the strange indifference of yesterday, nor the physical strength + of the morning . . . peace, such peace as he had never before known, had + come to him. From the heart of the darkness up into the glowing beauty of + the high roof the music rose. It was Wednesday afternoon and the voices + were un accompanied. Soon the <i>Insanae et Vanae</i> climbed in wave + after wave of melody, was caught, held, lingered in the air, softly died + again. + </p> + <p> + Olva was detached—he saw his body beaten, imprisoned, tortured, + killed. But he was not there. He was riding heaven in quest of God. + </p> + <h3> + 4 + </h3> + <p> + At the gates of his college the news met him. He had been waiting for it + so long a time that now he had to act his horror. It seemed to him an old, + old story—this tale of a murder in Sannet Wood. + </p> + <p> + Groups of men were waiting in the cloisters, waiting for the doors to open + for "Hall." As Olva came towards the gates an undergraduate, white, + breathless, brushed past him and burst into the quiet, murmuring groups. + </p> + <p> + "My God, have you heard?" + </p> + <p> + Olva passed through the iron gates. The groups broke. He had the + impression of many men standing back—black in the dim light—waiting, + listening. + </p> + <p> + There was an instant's silence. Then, the man's voice breaking into a + shrill scream, the news came tumbling out. It seemed to flash a sudden + glare upon the blackness. + </p> + <p> + "It's Carfax—Carfax—he's been murdered." + </p> + <p> + The word was tossed, caught, flung against the stone pillars— + "Murdered! Murdered! Murdered!" + </p> + <p> + "They've just brought his body in now, found it in Sannet Wood this + evening; a working man found it. Been there two days. His neck broken——" + </p> + <p> + The mysterious groups scattered into strange fantastic shapes. There was a + pause and then a hundred voices began at once. Some one spoke to Olva and + he answered; his voice low and stern. . . . On every side confusion. + </p> + <p> + But for himself, like steel armour encasing his body, was the strange calm—aloof, + unmoved, dispassionate—that had come to him half an hour ago. + </p> + <p> + He was alone—like God. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV — MARGARET CRAVEN + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + It is essential to the maintenance of the Cambridge spirit that there + should be no melodrama. Into that placid and speculative air real life + tumbles with a resounding shock and the many souls that have been + building, these many years, with careful elaboration, walls of defence and + protection find themselves suddenly naked and indecent before the world. + For that army of men who use Cambridge as a gate to the world in front of + them the passage through the narrow streets is too swift to afford more in + after life than a pleasant reminiscence. It is because Cambridge is the + bridge between stern discipline and pleasant freedom that it is so happily + remembered; but there are those who adopt Cambridge as their abiding home, + and it is for these that real life is impossible. + </p> + <p> + Beneath these grey walls as the years pass slowly the illusions grow. + Closer and closer creep the walls of experience, softer and thicker are + the garments worn to keep out the cold, gentler and gentler are the + speculations born of a good old Port and a knowledge of the Greek + language. About the High Tables voices softly dispute the turning of a + phrase, eyes mildly salute the careful dishes of a wisely chosen cook, + gentle patronage is bestowed upon the wild ruffian of the outer world. + Many bells ring, many fires are burning, many lamps are lit, many leaves + of many books are turned—busily, busily hands are raising walls of + self-defence; the world at first regretted, then patronized, is now + forgotten . . . hush, he sleeps, his feet in slippers, his head upon the + softest cushion, his hand still covering the broad page of his dictionary. + . . . Nothing, not birth nor love, nor death must disturb his repose. + </p> + <p> + And here, in the heart of the Sannet Wood, is death from violence, death, + naked, crude, removed from all sense of life as we know it. The High + Tables avoid Carfax's body with all possible discretion; for an hour or + two the Port has lost its flavour, Homer is hidden by a cloud, the gentle + chatter is curtailed and silenced. Amongst the lower order—those + wild and turbulent undergraduates—it is the only topic. Carfax is + very generally known; he had ridden, he had rowed, he had played cricket. + A member of the only sporting club in the University, he had been known as + a "real sportsman and a damned good fellow" because he was often drunk and + frequently spent an evening in London . . . and now he is dead. + </p> + <p> + In Saul's a number of very young spirits awake to the consciousness of + death. Here is a red-faced hearty fellow as fit as anything one moment and + dead the next. Never before had the fact been faced that this might happen + to any one. Let the High Table dismiss it easily, it is none so simple for + those who have not had time to build up those defending walls. For a day + or two there is a hush about the place, voices are soft, men talk in + groups, the mystery is the one sensation. . . . The time passes, there are + other interests, once more the High Table can taste its wine. Death is + again bundled into noisier streets, into a harder, shriller air. . . . + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + Olva, on the morning after the discovery of the body, heard from Mrs. + Ridge speculations as to the probable criminal. "You take <i>my</i> word, + Mr. Dune, sir, it was one of them there nasty tramps—always 'anging + round they are, and Miss Annett was only yesterday speakin' to me of a + ugly feller comin' round to their back door and askin' for bread, weren't + you, Miss Annett?" + </p> + <p> + "I was, indeed, Mrs. Ridge." + </p> + <p> + "And 'im with the nastiest 'eavy blue jaw you ever saw on a man, 'adn't + 'e, Miss Annett?" + </p> + <p> + "He had, indeed, Mrs. Ridge." + </p> + <p> + "Ah, I shouldn't wonder—nasty-sort-o'-looking feller. And that + Sannet Wood too—nasty lonely place with its old stones and all—comfortable?—I + <i>don't</i> think." + </p> + <p> + Olva made inquiries as to the stones. + </p> + <p> + "Why, ever so old, they say—before Christ, I've 'eard. Used to cut + up 'uman flesh and eat it like the pore natives, and there's a ugly + lookin' stone in that very wood where they did it too, or so I've 'eard. + Would you go along that way in the dark, Miss Annett?" + </p> + <p> + "Not much—I grant <i>you</i>, Mrs. Ridge." + </p> + <p> + "Oh yes! not likely on a dark night, I <i>don't</i> think!—and that + pore Mr. Carfax—well, all I say is, I 'opes they catch 'im, that's + all <i>I</i> say . . ." with further reminiscence concerning Mrs. Birch + who had worked on Carfax's staircase the last ten years and never "'ad no + kind of luck. There was that Mr. Oliver—-" + </p> + <p> + Final dismissal of Mrs. Ridge and Miss Annett. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, strange enough the relief that he felt because the body was + actually removed from that wood. No longer possible now to see it lying + there with the leg bent underneath, the head falling straight back, the + ring on the finger. . . . Curious, too, that the matchbox had not been + discovered; they must have searched pretty thoroughly by now—perhaps + after all it had not been dropped there. + </p> + <p> + But over him there had fallen a strange lassitude. He was outside, beyond + it all. + </p> + <p> + And then Craven came to see him. The event had wrought in the boy a great + change. It was precisely with a character like Craven's that such an + incident must cleave a division between youth and manhood. He had, until + last evening, considered nothing for himself; his father's death had + occurred when he was too young to see anything in it but a perfectly + natural removal of some one immensely old. The world had seemed the + easiest, the simplest of places, his years at Rugby had been delight. + Fully free from shocks of any kind. Good health, friendship, a little + learning, these things had made the days pass swiftly. Rupert Craven had + been yesterday, a child precisely typical of the system in which he had + been drilled; now he was something different. Olva knew that he was + capable of depths of feeling because of his extraordinary devotion to his + sister. Craven had often spoken of her to Olva—"So different from + me, the most brilliant person in the world. Her music is really wonderful——people + who know, I mean, all say so. But you see we're the same age—only + two of us. We've always been everything to one another." + </p> + <p> + Olva wondered why Craven had told him. It was not as though they had ever + been very intimate, but Craven seemed to think that Olva and his sister + would have much in common. + </p> + <p> + Olva wondered, as he looked at Craven standing there in the doorway, how + this sister would take the change in her brother. He had suddenly, as he + looked at Craven, a perception of the number of lives with whose course + his action had involved him. The wheel was beginning to turn. . . . + </p> + <p> + The light had gone from Craven's eyes. His vitality and energy had slipped + from him, leaving his body heavy, unalert. He seemed puzzled, awed; there + were dark lines under his eyes, his cheeks were pale and his mouth had + lost its tendency to smile, its lines were heavy; but, above all, his + expression was interrogative. Finally, he was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + For an instant, as he looked at him, Olva felt that he could not face him, + then with a deliberate summoning of the resources of his temperament he + strung himself to whatever the day might bring forth. + </p> + <p> + "This is awful——" + </p> + <p> + "Yes." + </p> + <p> + "Of course it doesn't matter to you, Dune, as it does to me, but I knew + the fellow so awfully well. It's horrible, horrible. That he should have + died—like that." + </p> + <p> + Olva broke out suddenly. "After all not such a bad way to die—swift + enough. I don't suppose Carfax valued life especially." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! he enjoyed it—enjoyed it like anything. And that it should be + taken so trivially, for no reason at all. It seems to be almost certain + that it was some tramp or other—robbery the motive probably, and + then he was startled and left the money—it was all lying about on + the grass. But then Carfax was mixed up with so many ruffians of one kind + and another. It may have been revenge or any-thing. I believe they are + searching the wood now, but they're not likely to bring it home to any + one. Misty day, no one about, and the man simply used his fist apparently—he + must have been most awfully strong. Have you ever heard of any one killing + a man with one blow—except a prize-fighter?" + </p> + <p> + "It's simply a knack, I believe, if you catch a fellow in a certain spot." + </p> + <p> + Supposing that some wretched tramp were arrested and accused? Some dirty + fellow from behind a hedge? All the tramps, all the ruffians of the world + were now a danger. The accusation of another would bring the truth from + him of course. His dark eyes moved across the room to Craven's white, + tired face. Within himself there moved now with every hour stirring more + acutely this desire for life. If only they would let him alone . . . let + the body alone . . . let it all alone. Let the world sink back to its + earlier apathy. + </p> + <p> + His voice was resentful. + </p> + <p> + "Carfax wasn't a good fellow, Craven. No, I know—<i>Nil nini bonum</i> + . . . and all the rest of it. But it looks a bit like a judgment—judgment + from Heaven." + </p> + <p> + Craven broke in. + </p> + <p> + "But now—just now when his body's lying there. I know there were + things he did. He was a bit wild, of course——" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, there was a girl, a girl in Midgett's tobacconist's shop—his + daughter. Carfax ruined her, body and soul . . . ruined her. He boasted of + it. Looks like a judgment." + </p> + <p> + "I don't care." Craven sprang up. "Carfax may have done things, but he was + a friend of mine, and a good friend. They <i>must</i> catch the man, they + <i>must</i>. It's a duty they owe us all. To have such a man as that + hanging about. Why, it might happen to any of us. You must help me, Dune." + </p> + <p> + "Help you?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes—help them to catch the murderer. We must think of everything + that could make a clue. Perhaps this girl. I <i>had</i> heard something + about her, of course; but perhaps there was another lover, a rival or + something, or perhaps her father——" + </p> + <p> + "Well," Dune said slowly, "my advice to you, Craven, is not to think too + much about the whole business. A thing like that is certain to get on + one's nerves—leave it alone as much as you can——" + </p> + <p> + "What a funny chap you are! You're always like that. As detached from + everything as though you weren't alive at all. Why, I believe, if you'd + committed the murder yourself you wouldn't be much more concerned!" + </p> + <p> + "Well, we've got to go on as we're made, I suppose, only <i>do</i> take my + advice about not getting morbid over it. By the way, I see I'm playing + against St. Martin's this afternoon." + </p> + <p> + "Yes. I thought at first I wouldn't play. But I suppose it's better to go + on doing one's ordinary things. You're coming in to-night, aren't you? + </p> + <p> + "Are you sure you want me after all this disturbance? + </p> + <p> + "Why, of course; my mother's expecting you. Half-past seven. Don't dress." + He raised his arms above his head, yawning. He was obviously better for + the talk. His eyes were less strained, his body more alert. "I'm tired to + death. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night—saw poor Carfax in the + dark—ugh! Well, we meet this afternoon." + </p> + <p> + When the door closed Olva had the sensation of having been on his trial. + Craven's eyes still followed him. Nerves, of course . . . but they had + strangely reminded him of Bunker. + </p> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> + <p> + Olva had never been to Craven's house before. It stood in a little street + that joined Cambridge to the country. At one end of the prim little road + the lamps stopped abruptly and a white chalk path ran amongst dark common + to a distant wood. + </p> + <p> + At the other end a broader road with tram-lines crossed. The house was + built by itself, back from the highway, with a tiny drive and some dark + laurels. It was always gloomy and apparently unkept. The autumn leaves + were dull and sodden upon the drive; the bell and knocker upon the heavy + door, from which the paint was worn in places, were rusty. No sound came + from the little road beyond. + </p> + <p> + The place seemed absolutely without life. Olva now, as he sent the bell + pealing through the passages, knew that this dark desertion had an effect + upon his nerves. A week ago he would not have noticed the place at all—now + he longed for lights and noise and company. He had played foot-ball that + afternoon better than ever before; that, too, had been a defence, almost a + protest, an assertion of his right to live. + </p> + <p> + As he waited his thoughts pursued him. He had heard them say to-night that + no clue had been discovered, that the police were entirely at a loss. It + was impossible to trace foot-marks amongst all that undergrowth. No one + had been seen in that direction during the hours when the murder must have + been committed . . . so on—so on . . . all this talk, this + discussion. The wretched man was dead—no one would miss him—no + one cared—leave him alone, leave him alone. Olva pulled the bell + again furiously. Why couldn't they come? He wanted to escape from this + dark and dismal drive; these hanging laurels, the cold little road, with + its chilly lamps. An old and tottering woman, her nose nearly touching her + chin and her fingers in black mittens, opened at last and led Olva into + the very blackest and closest little hall that he had ever encountered. + The air was thick and musty with a strangely mingled smell of burning + wood, of faded pot-pourri, of dried skins. The ceiling was low and black, + and the only window was one of a dull red glass that glimmered mournfully + at a distance. The walls were hung with the strangest things, prizes + apparently that the late Dr. Craven had secured in China—grinning + heathen gods, uncouth weapons, dried skins of animals. Out of this dark + little hall Olva was led into a drawing-room that was itself nearly as + obscure. Here the ceiling was higher, but the place square and dark; a + deep set stone fireplace in which logs were burning was the most obvious + thing there. For the rest the floor seemed littered with old twisted + tables, odd chairs with carved legs, here a plate with sea shells, here a + glass case with some pieces of ribbon, old rusty coins, silver ornaments. + There were many old prints upon the walls, landscapes, some portraits, and + stuck here and there elaborate arrangements of silk and ribbon and paper + fans and coloured patterns. Opposite the dark diamond-paned window was an + old gilt mirror that seemed to catch all the room into its dusty and faded + reflections, and to make what was old and tattered enough already, doubly + dreary. The room had the close and musty air of the hall as though windows + were but seldom opened; there was a scent as though oranges had recently + been eaten there. + </p> + <p> + At first Olva had thought that he was alone in the room; then when his + eyes had grown more accustomed to the light he saw, sitting in a + high-backed chair, motionless, gazing into the fire, with her fine white + hands lying in her lap, a lady. She reminded him, in that first vision of + her, of "Phiz's" pictures of Mrs. Clennam in <i>Little Dorrit</i>, and + always afterwards that connection remained with him. Her thin, spare + figure had something intense, almost burning, in its immobility, in the + deep black of her dress and hair, in the white sharpness of the outline of + her face. + </p> + <p> + How admirably, it seemed to him, she suited that room. She too may have + thought as she turned slowly to look at him that he fitted his background, + with the spare dignity of his figure, his fine eyes, the black and white + contrast of his body so that his cheeks, his hands, seemed almost to shine + against the faded air. It is certain that they recognized at once some + common ground so that they met as though they had known one another for + many years. The old minor caught for a moment the fine gravity and silence + of his approach to her as he waited for her to greet him. + </p> + <p> + But before she could speak to him the door had opened and Margaret Craven + entered. In her gravity, her silence, she seemed at once to claim kinship + with them both. She had the black hair, the pale face, the sharp outline + of her mother. As she came quietly towards them her reserve was wonderful, + but there was tenderness in the soft colour of her eyes, in the lines of + her mouth that made her also beautiful. But beyond the tenderness there + was also an energy that made every move seem like an attack. In spite of + her reserve there was impatience, and Olva's first judgment of her was + that the last thing in the world that she could endure was muddle; she + shone with the clean-cut decision of fine steel. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Craven spoke without rising from her chair. + </p> + <p> + "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Dune, Rupert has often told us about you." + </p> + <p> + Margaret advanced to him and held out her hand. She looked him straight in + the eyes. + </p> + <p> + "We have met before, you know." + </p> + <p> + "I had not forgotten," he answered her gravely. + </p> + <p> + Then Rupert came in. It was strange how one saw now, when he stood beside + his mother and sister, that he had some of their quality of stern reserve. + He had always seemed to Olva a perfectly ordinary person of natural good + health and good temper, and now this quality that had descended upon him + increased the fresh attention that he had already during these last two + days demanded. For something beyond question the Carfax affair must be + held responsible. It seemed now to be the only thing that could hold his + mind. He spoke very little, but his white face, his tired eyes, his + listless conversation, showed the occupation of his mind. It was indeed a + melancholy evening. + </p> + <p> + To Olva, his nerves being already on edge, it was almost intolerable. They + passed from the drawing-room into a tiny dining-room—a room that was + as dingy and faded as the rest, with a dull red paper on the walls and an + old blue carpet. The old woman waited; the food was of the simplest. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Craven scarcely spoke at all. She sat with her eyes gravely fixed in + front of her, save when she raised them to flash them for an instant at + Olva. He found this sudden gaze extraordinarily disconcerting; it was as + though she were reasserting her claim to some common understanding that + existed between them, to some secret that belonged to them alone. + </p> + <p> + They avoided, for the most part, Carfax's death. Once Margaret Craven + said: "One of the most astonishing things about anything of this kind + seems to me the bravery of the murderer—the bravery I mean that is + demanded of any one during the days between the crime and his arrest. To + be in possession of that tremendous secret, to be at war, as it were, with + the world, and yet to lead, in all probability, an ordinary life—that + demands courage." + </p> + <p> + "One may accustom oneself to anything," Mrs. Craven said. Her voice was + deep and musical, and her words seemed to linger almost like an echo in + the air. + </p> + <p> + Olva thought as he looked at Margaret Craven that there was a strength + there that could face anything; it was more than courage; it might, under + certain circumstances, become fanaticism. But he knew that whereas Mrs. + Craven stirred in him a deep restlessness and disquiet, Margaret Craven + quieted and soothed him, almost, it seemed, deliberately, as though she + knew that he was in trouble. + </p> + <p> + He said: "I should think that his worst enemy, if he have any imagination + at all, must be his loneliness. I can conceive that the burden of the + secret, even though there be no chance whatever of discovery, must make + that loneliness intolerable." + </p> + <p> + Here Rupert Craven interrupted as though he were longing to break away + from the subject. + </p> + <p> + "You played the finest game of your life this afternoon, Dune. I never saw + anything like that last try of yours. Whymper was on the touch-line—I + saw him. The 'Varsity's certain to try you again on Saturday." + </p> + <p> + "I've been slack too long," Olva said, laughing. "I never enjoyed anything + more than this afternoon." + </p> + <p> + "I played the most miserable game I've ever played—couldn't get this + beastly thing out of my head." + </p> + <p> + Olva felt as though he were almost at the end of his endurance. At that + moment he thought that he would have preferred them to burst the doors and + arrest him. He had never known such fatigue. If he could sleep he did not + care what happened to him. + </p> + <p> + The rest of the evening seemed a dream. The dark, crowded drawing-room + flickered in the light from the crackling fire. Mrs. Craven, in her stiff + chair, never moving her eyes, flung shadows on the walls. Some curtain + blew drearily, with little secret taps, against the door. Rupert Craven + sat moodily in a dark corner. + </p> + <p> + At Olva's request Margaret Craven played. The piano was old and needed + attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing. First she + gave him some modern things—some Debussy, <i>Les Miroires</i> of + Ravel, some of the Russian ballet music of <i>Cleopatre</i>. These she + flung at him, fiercely, aggressively, playing them as though she would + wring cries of protest from the very notes. + </p> + <p> + "There," she cried when she had finished, flashing a look that was almost + indignant at him. "There is your modern stuff—I can give you more of + it." + </p> + <p> + "I would like something better now," he said gravely. + </p> + <p> + Without a word that mood left her. In the dim candle-light her eyes were + tender again. Very softly she played the first two movements of the + "Moonlight" sonata. + </p> + <p> + "I am not in the mood for the last movement," she said, and closed the + piano. Still about the old silver, the dark walls, the log fire, the old + gilt mirror, the sweet, delicate notes lingered. + </p> + <p> + Soon afterwards he left them. As he passed down the chill, deserted + street, abandoning the dark laurelled garden, he saw behind him the stern + shadow of Mrs. Craven black upon the wall. + </p> + <p> + But the loneliness, the unrest, walked behind him. Silence was beginning + to be terrible. God—this God—this Unknown God—pursued + him. Only a little comfort out of the very heart of that great pursuing + shadow came to him—Margaret Craven's grave and tender eyes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V — STONE ALTARS + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + Carfax was buried. There had been an inquest; certain tramps and wanderers + had been arrested, examined and dismissed. No discovery had been made, and + a verdict of Wilful "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown" + had been returned. It was generally felt that Carfax's life had not been + of the most savoury and that there were, in all probability, amongst the + back streets of Cambridge several persons who had owed him a grudge. He + appeared, indeed, in the discoveries that were now made on every side, to + be something better dead than alive. A stout and somnolent gentleman, with + red cheeks and eyes half closed, was the only mourner from the outside + world at the funeral. This, it appeared, was an uncle. Father dead, mother + divorced and leading a pleasant existence amongst the capitals of Europe. + The uncle, although maintaining a decent appearance of grief, was + obviously, at heart, relieved to be rid of his nephew so easily. Poor + Carfax! For so rubicund and noisy a person he left strangely little mark + upon the world. Within a fortnight the college had nearly lost account of + his existence. He lent to Sannet Wood a sinister air that caused + numberless undergraduates to cycle out in that direction. Now and again, + when conversation flagged, some one revived the subject. But it was a + horse that needed much whipping to make it go. It had kicked with its + violent hoof upon the soft walls of Cambridge life. For a moment it had + seemed that it would force its way, but the impression had been of the + slightest. + </p> + <p> + Even within the gates and courts of Saul's itself the impression that + Carfax had left faded with surprising swiftness into a melodramatic + memory. But nothing could have been more remarkable than the resolute + determination of these young men to push grim facts away. They were not + made—one could hear it so eloquently explained—for that kind + of tragedy. The autumn air, the furious exercise, the hissing kettles, the + decent and amiable discussions on Life reduced to the importance of a + Greek Accent—these things rejected violently the absurdity of Tragic + Crudity. + </p> + <p> + They were quite right, these young men. They paid their shining pounds for + the capture—conscious or not as it might be—of an atmosphere, + a delicate and gentle setting to the crudity of their later life. Carfax, + when alive, had blundered into coarse disaster but had blundered in back + streets. Now the manner of his death painted him in shrieking colours. The + harmony was disturbed, therefore he must go. + </p> + <p> + Of more importance to this world of Saul's was the strange revival—as + though from the dead—of Olva Dune. They had been prepared, many of + them, for some odd development, but this perfectly normal, healthy + interest in the affairs of the College was the last thing that his grave, + romantic air could ever have led any one to expect. His football in the + first place opened wide avenues of speculation. First there had been the + College game, then there had been the University match against the + Harlequins, and it was, admittedly, a very long time since any one had + seen anything like it. He had seemed, in that game against the Harlequins, + to possess every virtue that should belong to the ideal three-quarter—pace, + swerve, tackle, and through them all the steady working of the brain. + Nevertheless those earlier games were yet remembered against him, and it + was confidently said that this brilliance, with a man of Dune's + temperament, could not possibly last. But, nevertheless, the expectation + of his success brought him up, with precipitation, against the personality + of Cardillac, and it was this implied rivalry that agitated the College. + It is only in one's second year that a matter of this kind can assume + world-shaking importance. The First-year Undergraduate is too near the + child, the Third-year Undergraduate too near the man. For the First-year + man School, for the Third-year man the World looms too heavily. So it is + from the men of the Second year that the leaders are to be selected, and + at this time in Saul's Cardillac seemed to have no rival. He combined, to + an admirable degree, the man of the world and the sportsman; he had an air + that was beyond rubies. He was elegant without being effeminate, arrogant + without being conceited, indifferent without being blase. He had learnt, + at Eton, and at the knee of a rich and charming mother, that to be crude + was the unforgivable sin. He worshipped the god of good manners and would + have made an admirable son of the great Lord Chesterfield. Finally he was + the only man in Saul's who had any "air" at all, and he had already + travelled round the world and been introduced by his mother to Royalty at + Marienbad. + </p> + <p> + The only man who could ever have claimed any possible rivalry was Dune, + and Dune had seemed determined, until now, to avoid any-thing of the kind. + Suddenly the situation leapt upon the startled eyes of the attentive + world. Possibility of excitement. . . . + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + Olva, himself, was entirely unconcerned by this threatened rivalry. He was + being driven, by impulses that he understood only too well, into the + noisiest life that he could manage to find about him. The more noise the + better; he had only a cold fear at his heart that, after all, it would + penetrate his dreaded loneliness too little, let it be as loud a noise as + he could possibly summon. + </p> + <p> + He had not now—and this was the more terrible—any + consciousness of Carfax at all; there was waiting for him, lurking, + beast-like, until its inevitable moment, something far more terrible. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile he made encounters. . . . There was Bunning. The Historical + Society in Saul's was held together by the Senior Tutor. This gentleman, a + Mr. Gregg, was thin, cadaverous, blue-chinned, mildly insincere. It was + his view of University life that undergraduates were born yesterday and + would believe anything that you told them. In spite, however, of their + tender years there was a lurking ferocity that must be checked by an + indulgent heartiness of manner, as one might offer a nut to a monkey. His + invariable manner of salutation—"<i>Come</i> along, Simter—the + very man I wanted to see"—lost its attraction through much + repetition, and the hearty assumption on the amiable gentleman's part that + "we are all boys together" froze many undergraduates into a chill and + indifferent silence. He had not taken Holy Orders, but he gave, + nevertheless, the effect of adopting the language of the World, the Flesh + and the Devil in order that he might the better spy out the land. He + attracted, finally, to himself certain timid souls who preferred insincere + comfort to none at all, but he was hotly rejected by more able-bodied + persons. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless the Historical Society prospered, and Olva one evening, + driven he knew not by what impulse, attended its meeting. When he entered + Mr. Gregg's room some dozen men were already seated there. The walls were + hung with groups in which a younger and even thinner Mr. Gregg was + displayed, a curious figure in "shorts." On one side of the room two oars + were hung and over the mantelpiece (littered with pipes) there were + photographs of the "Mona Lisa" and Da Vinci's "Last Supper." The men in + the room were embarrassed and silent. Under a strong light a minute + undergraduate with enormous spectacles sat, white and trembling; it was + obviously he who was to read the paper. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gregg came forward heartily. "Why, Dune, this is quite splendid! The + very man! Why, it is long since you've honoured our humble gathering. + Baccy? That's right. Help yourself. Erdington's going to read to us about + the Huns and stand a fire of questions afterwards, aren't you, Erdington?" + </p> + <p> + The youth in spectacles gulped. + </p> + <p> + "<i>That's</i> right. <i>That's</i> right. Comfortable now, Dune? Got all + you want? <i>That's</i> right. Now we can begin, I think. Minutes of the + last meeting, Stevens." + </p> + <p> + Olva placed himself in a corner and looked round the room. He found that + most of the men were freshmen whose faces he did not know, but there, + moving his fat body uneasily on a chair, was Bunning, and there, to his + intense surprise, was Lawrence. That football hero was lounging with + half-closed eyes in a large armchair. His broad back looked as though it + would burst the wooden arms, and his plain, good-natured face beamed, + through a cloud of smoke, upon the company. Below his short, light grey + flannel trousers were bright purple socks. He had the body of a bullock—short, + thick, broad, strong, thoroughly well calculated to withstand the rushes + of oncoming three-quarters. Various freshmen flung timid glances at the + hero every now and again; it was to them an event that they might have, + for a whole hour, closely under their observation, this king among men. + </p> + <p> + Olva wondered at his presence. He remembered that Lawrence was taking a + "pass" degree in History. He knew also that Lawrence somewhere in the + depths of his slow brain had a thirst for knowledge and at the same time a + certain assurance that he would never acquire any. His slow voice, his + slow smile, the great, heavy back, the short thick legs attracted Olva; + there was something simple and primeval here that appealed to the Dune + blood. Moreover, since the afternoon when Olva had played against the + Harlequins and covered himself with glory, Lawrence had shown a + disposition to make friends. Old Lawrence might be stupid, but, as a + background, he was the most important man in the College. His slow, + lumbering body as it rolled along the Court was followed by the eyes of + countless freshmen. His appearance on the occasion of a College concert + was the signal for an orgy of applause. Cardillac might lead the College, + but he was, nevertheless, of common clay. Lawrence was of the gods! + </p> + <p> + Swift contrast the fat and shapeless Bunning! As the tremulous and almost + tearful voice of little Erdington continued the solemn and dreary + exposition of the Huns, Olva felt increasingly that Bunning's eye was upon + him. Olva had not seen the creature since the night of the revival, and he + was irritated with himself for the persistence of his interest. The man's + pluck had, in the first place, struck him, but now it seemed to him that + they were, in some undefinable measure, linked together. As Olva watched + him, half contemptuously, half sarcastically, he tried to pin his brain + down to the actual, definite connection. It seemed ultimately to hang + round that dreadful evening when they had been together; it was almost—-although + this was absurd—as though Bunning knew; but, in spite of the certain + assurance of his ignorance Olva felt as he moved uneasily under Bunning's + gaze that the man himself was making some claim upon him. It was evident + that Bunning was unhappy; he looked as though he had not slept; his face + was white and puffy, his eyes dark and heavy. He was paying no attention + to the "Huns," but was trying, obviously, to catch Olva's eye. As the + reading progressed Olva became more and more uneasy. It showed the things + that must be happening to his nerves. He had now that sensation that had + often come to him lately that some one was waiting for him outside the + door. He imagined that the man next to him, a spotty, thin and restless + freshman, would suddenly turn to him and say quite casually—"By the + way, you killed Carfax, didn't you?" Above all he imagined himself + suddenly rising in his place and saying—-"Yes, gentlemen, this is + all very well, very interesting I'm sure, but I killed Carfax." + </p> + <p> + His tortured brain was being driven, compelled to these utterances. Behind + him still he felt that pursuing cloud; one day it would catch him and, out + of the heart of it, there would leap . . . + </p> + <p> + And all this because Bunning looked at him. It was becoming now a habit—so + general that it was instinctive—that, almost unconsciously, he + should, at a point like this, pull at his nerves. "They are watching you; + they are watching you. Don't let them see you like this; pull yourself + together. . . ." + </p> + <p> + He did. Little Erdington's voice ceased. Mr. Gregg was heard saying: "It + has always occurred to me that the Huns . . . " and then, after many + speeches: "How does this point of view strike you, Erdington?" + </p> + <p> + It didn't strike Erdington very strongly, and there was no other person + present who seemed to be struck in any very especial direction. The + discussion, therefore, quickly flagged. Olva escaped Bunning's pleading + eyes, found his gown amongst a heap in the corner, and avoiding Mr. + Gregg's pressing invitation to stay, plunged down the stairs. Behind him, + then, making his heart leap into his mouth, was a slow, thick voice. + </p> + <p> + "I say, Dune, what do you say to a little drink in my room after all that + muck?" Above him, in the dark shadow of the stair, loomed Lawrence's thick + body. + </p> + <p> + "I shall be delighted," Olva said. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence came lumbering down. He always spoke as though words were a + difficulty to him. He left out any word that was not of vital necessity. + </p> + <p> + "Muck that-awful muck. What do they want gettin' a piffler like that kid + in the glasses to read his ideas? Ain't got any—not one—no + more 'an I have." + </p> + <p> + They reached the Court—it swam softly in the moonlight—stars + burnt, here and there, in a trembling sky. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence put his great arm through Olva's. "Rippin' game that o' yours + yesterday. Rippin'." He seemed to lick his lips over it as a gourmet over + a delicate dish. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence pursued his slow thoughts. + </p> + <p> + "I say, you know, you—re one of these clever ones—thinkin' an' + writin' an' all that—an' <i>yet</i> you play footer like an + archangel—a blarsted archangel. Lucky devil!" He sighed heavily. + "Every time I put on my footer boots," he pursued, "I say to myself, 'What + you'd be givin', Jerry Lawrence, if you could just go and write a book! + What you'd give! But it ain't likely—my spellin's somethin' + shockin'." + </p> + <p> + Here there was interruption. Several men came rattling; laughing and + shouting, down the staircase behind Lawrence and Olva. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, damn!" said Lawrence, slowly turning round upon them. Cardillac was + there, also Bobby Galleon, Rupert Craven, and one or two more. + </p> + <p> + Cardillac shouted. "Hul<i>lo</i>, Lawrence, old man. Is it true, as they + say, that you've been sitting at the feet of our dearly beloved Gregg? How + splendid for you!" + </p> + <p> + "I've been at our Historical Society hearin' about the Huns, and therefore + there's compellin' necessity for a drink," Lawrence said, moving in the + direction of his room. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! rot, don't go in yet. We're thinking of going round and paying + Bunning a visit in another ten minutes. He's going to have a whole lot of + men in for a prayer-meeting. Thompson's just brought word." + </p> + <p> + Thompson, a wretched creature in the Second Year, who had, during his + first term, been of the pious persuasion and had since turned traitor, + offered an eager assurance. + </p> + <p> + The news obviously tempted Lawrence. He moved his body slowly round. + </p> + <p> + "Well," he said slowly, then he turned to Olva. "You'll come?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "No, thanks," said Olva shortly. "Bunning's been ragged about enough. + There's nothing the matter with the man." + </p> + <p> + Cardillac's voice was amused. "Well, Dune, I daresay we can get on without + you," he said. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence said slowly, "Well, I don't know. P'raps it's mean on the man. I + want a drink. I don't think I'm havin' any to-night, Cards." + </p> + <p> + Cardillac was sharper. "Oh, nonsense, Lawrence, come along. It doesn't do + the man any harm." + </p> + <p> + "It frightens the fellow out of his wits," said Dune sharply. "You + wouldn't like it yourself if you had a dozen fellows tumbling down upon + your rooms and chucking your things out of the window." + </p> + <p> + Rupert Craven said: "Well, I'm off anyhow. Work for me." He vanished into + the shadow. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence nodded. "Good-bye, Cards, old man. Go and play your old bridge or + something—leave the wretched Bunnin' to his prayers." + </p> + <p> + Lawrence and Olva moved away. + </p> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> + <p> + The first thing that Lawrence said when they were lounging comfortably in + his worn but friendly chairs hit Olva, expecting peace here at any rate, + like a blow. + </p> + <p> + "Fellers have forgotten Carfax damn quick." + </p> + <p> + In that good-natured face there was no suspicion, but Olva seemed to see + there a curiosity, even an excitement. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," he said, "they have." + </p> + <p> + "Fellers," said Lawrence again, "aren't clever in this College. They get + their firsts in Science—little measly pups from Board Schools who + don't clean their teeth—and there are one or two men who can row a + bit and play footer a bit and play cricket a bit—I grant you all + that—but they <i>aren't</i> clever—not what I call clever." + </p> + <p> + Olva waited for the development of Lawrence's brain. + </p> + <p> + "Now at St. Martin's they'll talk. They'll sit round a fire the whole + blessed evenin' talkin'—about whether there's a God or isn't a God, + about whether they're there or aren't there, about whether women are + rotten or not, about jolly old Greece and jolly old Rome—<i>I</i> + know. That's the sort o' stuff you could go in for—damn interestin'. + I'd like to listen to a bit of it, although they'd laugh if they heard me + say so, but what I'm gettin' at is that there ain't any clever fellers in + this old bundle o' bricks, and Carfax's death proves it." + </p> + <p> + "How does it prove it?" asked Dune. + </p> + <p> + "Why, don't you see, they'd have made more of Carfax. Nobody said a + blessed thing that any one mightn't have said." + </p> + <p> + Lawrence thought heavily for a moment or two, and then he brought out— + </p> + <p> + "Carfax was a stinker—a rotten fellow. That's granted, but there was + more in it than just Carfax. Why, any one could give him a knock on the + chin any day and there's no loss, but to have a feller killed in Sannet + Wood where all those old Druids—-" + </p> + <p> + As the words came from him Lawrence stopped. + </p> + <p> + "Druids?" said Olva. + </p> + <p> + "Why, yes. I wish I were a clever feller an' I could say what I mean, but + if I'd been a man with a bit of grey matter that's what I'd have gone in + for—those old stones, those old fellers who used to slash your + throat to please their God. My soul, there's stuff there. <i>They</i> knew + what fighting <i>was—they'd</i> have played footer with you. Ever + since I was a tiny kid they've excited me, and if I'd been a brainy feller + I'd have known a lot more, but the minute I start reactin' about them I + get heavy, can't keep my eyes to it. But I've walked miles—often and + often—to see a stone or a hill, don't yer know, and Sannet Wood's + one o' the best. So, says I, when I hear about young Carfax bein' done for + right there at the very place, I says to myself, 'You may look and look—hold + your old inquests—collar your likely feller—but it wasn't a + man that did it, and you'll have to go further than human beings if you + fix on the culprit.'" + </p> + <p> + This was, in all probability, the longest speech that Lawrence had ever + made in his life. He himself seemed to think so, for he added in short + jerks: "It was those old Druids—got sick—o' the sight—o' + Carfax's dirty body—bangin' about in their preserves—an' they + gave him a chuck under the chin," and after that there was silence. + </p> + <p> + To Olva the effect of this was uncanny. He played, it seemed, a spiritual + Blind Man's Buff. On every side of him things filled the air; once and + again he would touch them, sometimes he would fancy that he was alone, + clear, isolated, when suddenly something again would blunder up against + him. And always with him, driving him into the bustle of his fellow men, + flinging him, hurling him from one noise to another noise, was the terror + of silence. Let him once be alone, once waiting in suspense, and he would + hear. . . . What would he hear? + </p> + <p> + He felt a sudden impulse to speak. + </p> + <p> + "Do you know, Lawrence, in a kind of way I feel with you. I mean this—that + if—I had, at any time, committed a murder or were indeed burdened by + any tremendous breaking of a law, I believe it would be the consciousness + of the Maker of the law that would pursue me. It sounds priggish, but I + don't mean man. The laws that man has made nothing—subject to any + temporary civilization, mere fences put up for a moment to keep the cattle + in their proper fields. But the laws that God made—if you break one + . . ." + </p> + <p> + Lawrence tuned heavily in his chair. + </p> + <p> + "Then you believe in God?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I believe in God." + </p> + <p> + After that there was silence. Both men felt uncomfortable. Led by some + sudden, ungovernable impulse, they had both gone further than their slight + acquaintance justified. Olva was convinced that he had made a fool of + himself, that he had talked like a prig. Lawrence was groping hopelessly + amongst a forest of dark thought for some little sensible thing that he + might say. He found nothing and so relapsed, with false, uncomfortable + easiness, into— + </p> + <p> + "I say, old man, have a drink." + </p> + <p> + The rest of that conversation concerned football. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI — THE WATCHERS + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + He was running—running for his life. Behind stretched the long white + road rising like a great bloated, warning finger out of the misty trees. + Heavy cushions of grey cloud blotched the sky; through the mist ridges of + ploughed field rose like bars. + </p> + <p> + The dog, Bunker, was running beside him, his tongue out, body solid grey + against the lighter, floating grey around. His feet pattered beside his + master, but his body appeared to edge away and yet to be held by some + compelling force. + </p> + <p> + Olva was running, running. But not from Carfax. There in the wood it lay, + the leg doubled under the body, the head hanging limply back. . . . But + that was nought, no fear, no terror in that. It could not pursue, nor in + its clumsy following, had it had such power, would there have been any + horror. There was no sound in the world save his running and the patter of + the dog's feet. Would the lights never come, those sullen streets and at + last the grateful, welcome crowds? + </p> + <p> + He could see one lamp, far ahead of him, flinging its light forward to + help him. If he might only reach it before the pursuer caught him. Then, + behind him, oh! so softly, so gently, with a dreadful certainty, it came. + If he did but once look round, once behold that Shadow, his defeat was + sure. He would sink down there upon the road, the mists would crowd upon + him, and then the awful end. He began to call out, his breath came in + staggering gasps, his feet faltered. + </p> + <p> + "O, mercy, mercy—have mercy." He sank trembling to his knees. + </p> + <p> + "Dune, Dune, wake up! What's the matter? You've been making the most awful + shindy. Dune, Dune!" + </p> + <p> + Slowly he came to himself. As his eyes caught the old familiar objects, + the little diamond-paned window, the books, the smiling tenderness of + "Aegidius," the last evening blaze lighting the room with golden + splendour, he pulled himself together. + </p> + <p> + He had been sitting, he remembered now, in the armchair by the fire. + Craven had come to tea. They had had their meal, had talked pleasantly + enough, and then Olva had felt this overpowering desire for sleep come + down upon him. He knew the sensation of it well enough by now, for his + nights had often been crowded with waking hours, and this drowsiness would + attack him at any time—in hall, in chapel, in lecture. Sometimes he + had struggled against it, but to-day it had been too strong for him. + Craven's voice had grown fainter and fainter, the room had filled with + mist. He had made one desperate struggle, had seen through his hall-closed + eyes that Craven was looking at a magazine and blowing, lazily, clouds of + smoke from his pipe . . . then he had known no more. + </p> + <p> + Now, as he struggled to himself, he saw that Craven was standing over him, + shaking him by the arm. + </p> + <p> + "Hullo," he said stupidly, "I'm afraid I must have dropped off. I'm afraid + you must have thought me most frightfully rude." + </p> + <p> + Craven left him and went back to his chair. + </p> + <p> + "No," he said, "that's all right—only you <i>did</i> talk in the + most extraordinary way." + </p> + <p> + "Did I?" Olva looked at him gravely. "What did I say?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh—I don't know—only you shouted a lot. You're overdone, + aren't you? Been working too hard I expect." Then he added, slowly, "You + were crying out about Carfax." + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause. The clock ticked, the light slowly faded, leaving + the room in shadow. Craven's voice was uncomfortable. He said at last— + </p> + <p> + "You must have been thinking a lot about Carfax lately." + </p> + <p> + "What did I say?" asked Olva again. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, nothing." Craven turned his eyes away to the shadowy panes. "You were + dreaming about a road—and something about a wood . . . and a + matchbox." + </p> + <p> + "I've been sleeping badly." Olva got up, filled his pipe and relit it. "I + expect, although we don't say much about it, the Carfax business has got + on all our nerves. You don't look yourself, Craven." + </p> + <p> + He didn't. His careless, happy look had left him. Increasingly, every day, + Olva seemed to see in him a likeness to his mother and sister. The eyes + now were darker, the tines of the mouth were harder. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile so strong bad the dream's impression been that Olva could not + yet disentangle it from his waking thoughts. He was in his room and yet + the white road stretched out of it—somewhere there by the bookcase—oil + through the mist into the heart of the dark wood. + </p> + <p> + He had welcomed during these last days Craven's advances towards + friendship, partly because he wanted friends now, and partly, he was + beginning now to recognize, there was, in the back of his mind, the + lingering memory of the kind eyes of Margaret Craven. He perceived, too, + that here was sign enough of change in him—that he who had, from his + earliest days, held himself proudly, sternly aloof from all human + companionship save that of his father, should now, so readily and eagerly, + greet it. Craven had been proud of him, eager to be with him, and had + shown, in his artless opinions of men and things, the simplest, most + innocent of characters. + </p> + <p> + "Time to light up," said Olva. The room had grown very dark. + </p> + <p> + "I must be going." + </p> + <p> + Olva noticed at once that there was a new note in Craven's voice. The boy + moved, restlessly, about the room. + </p> + <p> + "I say," he brought out at last, laughing nervously, "don't go asleep when + I'm in the room again. It gives one fits." + </p> + <p> + Both men were conscious of some subtle, vague impression moving in the + darkness between them. + </p> + <p> + Olva answered gravely, "I've been sticking in at an old paper I've been + working on—no use to anybody, and I've been neglecting my proper + work for it, but it's absorbed me. That's what's given me such bad nights, + I expect." + </p> + <p> + "I shouldn't have thought," Craven answered slowly, "that anything ever + upset you; I shouldn't have thought you had any nerves. And, in any case, + I didn't know you had thought twice about the Carfax business." + </p> + <p> + Olva turned on the electric light. At the same moment there was a loud + knock on the door. + </p> + <p> + Craven opened it, showing in the doorway a pale and flustered Bunning. + Craven looked at him with a surprised stare, and then, calling out + good-bye to Olva, walked off. + </p> + <p> + Bunning stood hesitating, his great spectacles shining owl-like in the + light. + </p> + <p> + Dune didn't want him. He was, he reflected as he looked at him, the very + last person whom he did want. And then Bunning had most irritating habits. + There was that trick of his of pushing up his spectacles nervously higher + on to his nose. He bad a silly shrill laugh, and he had that lack of tact + that made him, when you had given him a shilling's worth of conversation + and confidence, suppose that you had given him half-a-crown's worth and + expect that you would very shortly give him five shillings' worth. He + presumed on nothing at all, was confidential when he ought to have been + silent, and gushing when he should simply have thanked you with a smile. + Nothing, moreover, to look at. He had the kind of complexion that looks as + though it would break into spots at the earliest opportunity. His clothes + fitted him badly and were dusty at the knees; his hair was of no colour + nor strength whatever, and he bit his nails. His eyes behind his + spectacles were watery and restless, and his linen always looked as though + it had been quite clean yesterday and would be quite filthy to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + And yet Olva, as he looked at him seated awkwardly in a chair, was + surprisingly, unexpectedly touched. The creature was so obviously sincere. + It was indeed poor Bunning's only possible "leg," his ardour. He would + willingly go to the stake for anything. It was the actual death and + sacrifice that mattered—-and Bunning's life was spent in marching, + magnificently and wholeheartedly, to the sacrificial altars and then + discovering that he had simply been asked to tea. + </p> + <p> + Now it was evident that he wanted something from Olva. His tremulous eyes + bad, as they gazed at Dune across the room, the dumb worship of a dog + adoring its master. + </p> + <p> + "I hear," he said in that husky voice that always sounded as though he + were just swallowing the last crumbs of a piece of toast, "that you + stopped Cardillac and the others coming round to my rooms the other night. + I can't tell you how I feel about it." + </p> + <p> + "Rot," said Olva brusquely. "If you were less of an ass they wouldn't want + to come round to your rooms so often." + </p> + <p> + "I know," said Bunning. "I am an awful ass." He pushed his spectacles up + his nose. "Why did you stop them coming?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "Simply," said Olva, "because it seems to me that ten men on to one is a + rotten poor game." + </p> + <p> + "I don't know," said Bunning, still very husky, "If a man's a fool he gets + rotted. That's natural enough. I've always been rotted all my life. I used + to think it was because people didn't understand me—now I know that + it really is because I am an ass." + </p> + <p> + Strangely, suddenly, some of the burden that bad been upon Olva now for so + long was lifted. The atmosphere of the room that had lain upon him so + heavily was lighter—and he seemed to feel the gentle withdrawing of + that pursuit that now, ever, night and day, sounded in his ears. + </p> + <p> + And what, above all, had happened to him? He flung his mind back to a + month ago. With what scorn then would he have glanced at Bunning's ugly + body—with what impatience have listened to his pitiful confessions. + Now he said gently— + </p> + <p> + "Tell me about yourself." + </p> + <p> + Bunning gulped and gripped the baggy knees of his trousers. + </p> + <p> + "I'm very unhappy," he said at last desperately—"very. And if you + hadn't come with me the other night to hear Med-Tetloe—I'm sure I + don't know why you did—I shouldn't have come now—-" + </p> + <p> + "Well, what's the matter?" + </p> + <p> + Bunning's mouth was full of toast. "It was that night—that service. + I was very worked up and I went round afterwards to speak to him. I could + see, you know, that it hadn't touched you at all. I could see that, and + then when I went round to see him he hadn't got anything to say—nothing + that I wanted—and—suddenly—then—at that moment—I + felt it was all no good. It was you, you made me feel like that—-" + </p> + <h3> + "I?" + </h3> + <p> + "Yes. If you hadn't gone—like that—it would have been + different. But when you—the last man in College to care about + it-went and gave it its chance I thought that would prove it. And then + when I went to him he was so silly, Med-Tetloe I mean. Oh! I can't + describe it but it was just no use and I began to feel that it was all no + good. I don't believe there is a God at all—it's all been wrong—I + don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. I've been wretched for + days, not sleeping or anything. And then they come and rag me—and—and—the + Union men want me to take Cards round for a Prayer Meeting—and—and—I + wouldn't, and they said. . . . Oh! I don't know, I don't know <i>what</i> + to do—I haven't got any-thing left!" + </p> + <p> + And here, to Olva's intense dismay, the wretched creature burst into the + most passionate and desperate tears, putting his great hands over his + face, his whole body sobbing. It was desolation—the desolation of a + human being who had clutched desperately at hope after hope, who had + demanded urgently that he should be given something to live for and had + had all things snatched from his hands. + </p> + <p> + Olva, knowing what his own loneliness was, and the terror of it, + understood. A fortnight ago he would have hated the scene, have sent + Bunning, with a cutting word, flying from the room, never to return. + </p> + <p> + "I say, Bunning, you mustn't carry on like this—you're overdone or + something. Besides, I don't understand. What does it matter if you <i>have</i> + grown to distrust Med-Tetloe and all that crowd. They aren't the only + people in the world—that isn't the only sort of religion." + </p> + <p> + "It's all I had. I haven't got anything now. They don't want me at home. + They don't want me here. I'm not clever. I can't do anything. . . . And + now God's gone. . . . I think I'll drown myself." + </p> + <p> + "Nonsense. You mustn't talk like that—God's never gone." + </p> + <p> + Bunning dropped his hands, looked up, his face ridiculous with its + tear-stains. + </p> + <p> + "You think there's a God?" + </p> + <p> + "I know there's a God." + </p> + <p> + "Oh!" Bunning sighed. + </p> + <p> + "But you mustn't take it from me, you know. You must think it out for + yourself. Everybody has to." + </p> + <p> + "Yes—but you matter—more to me than—any one." + </p> + <h3> + "I?" + </h3> + <p> + "Yes." Bunning looked at the floor and began to speak very fast. "You've + always seemed to me wonderful—so different from every one else. You + always looked—so wonderful. I've always been like that, wanted my + hero, and I haven't generally been able to speak to them—my heroes I + mean. I never thought, of course, that I should speak to you. And then + they sent me that day to you, and you came with me—it was so + wonderful—I've thought of nothing else since. I don't think God + would matter if you'd only let me come to see you sometimes and talk to + you—like this." + </p> + <p> + "Don't talk that sort of rot. Always glad to see you. Of course you may + come in and talk if you wish." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! you're so different—from what I thought. You always looked as + though you despised everybody—and now you look—Oh! I don't + know—but I'm afraid of you—-" + </p> + <p> + The wretched Bunning was swiftly regaining confidence. He was now, of + course, about to plunge a great deal farther than was necessary and to + burden Olva with sell-revelations and the rest. + </p> + <p> + Olva hurriedly broke in— + </p> + <p> + "Well, come and see me when you want to. I've got a lot of work to do + before Hall. But we'll go for a walk one day. . . ." + </p> + <p> + Bunning was at once flung back on to his timid self. He pushed his + spectacles back, blushed, nearly tumbled over his chair as he got up, and + backed confusedly out of the room. + </p> + <p> + He tried to say something at the door—"I can't thank you enough. . + ." he stuttered and was gone. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed behind him, swiftly Olva was conscious again of the + Pursuit. . . . + </p> + <p> + He turned to the empty room—"Leave me alone," he whispered. "For + pity's sake leave me alone." + </p> + <p> + The silence that followed was filled with insistent, mysterious urgency. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + Craven did not come that night to Hall. Galleon had asked him and Olva to + breakfast-the next morning. He did not appear. + </p> + <p> + About two o'clock in the afternoon a note was sent round to Olva's rooms. + "I've been rather seedy. Just out for a long walk—do you mind my + taking Bunker? Send word round to my rooms if you mind.—R. C." + Craven had taken Bunker out for walks before and had grown fond of the + dog. There was nothing in that. But Olva, as he stood in the middle of his + room with the note in his hand, was frightened. + </p> + <p> + The result of it was that about five o'clock on that afternoon Olva paid + his second visit to the dark house in Rocket Road. His motives for going + were confused, but he knew that at the back of them was a desire that he + should find Margaret Craven, with her grave eyes, waiting for him in the + musty little drawing-room, and that Mrs. Craven, that mysterious woman, + should not be there. The hall, when the old servant had admitted him, once + again seemed to enfold him in its darkness and heavy air with an almost + active purpose. It breathed with an actual sound, almost with a melody . . + . the "Valse Triste" of Sibelius, a favourite with Olva, seemed to him now + to be humming its thin spiral note amongst the skins and Chinese weapons + that covered the walls. The House seemed to come forward, on this second + occasion, actively, personally. . . . His wish was gratified. Margaret + Craven was alone in the dark, low-ceilinged drawing-room, standing, in her + black dress, before the great deep fireplace, as though she had known that + he would come and had been awaiting his arrival. + </p> + <p> + "I know that you will excuse my mother," she said in her grave, quiet + voice. "She is not very well. She will be sorry not to have seen you." Her + hand was cool and strong, and, as he held it for an instant, he was + strangely conscious that she, as well as the House, had moved into more + intimate relation with him since their last meeting. + </p> + <p> + They sat down and talked quietly, their voices sounding like low notes of + music in the heavy room. He was conscious of rest in the repose of her + figure, the pale outline of her face, the even voice, and above all the + grave tenderness of her eyes. He was aware, too, that she was demanding + from him something of the same kind; he divined that for her, too, life + had been no easy thing since they last met and that she wanted now a + little relief before she must return. He tried to give it her. + </p> + <p> + All through their conversation he was still conscious in the dim rustle + that any breeze made in the room of that thin melody that Sibelius once + heard. . . . + </p> + <p> + "I hope that Mrs. Craven is not seriously ill? + </p> + <p> + "No. It is one of her headaches. Her nerves are very easily upset. There + was a thunder-storm last night. . . . She has never been strong since + father died." + </p> + <p> + "You will tell her how sorry I am." + </p> + <p> + "Thank you. She is wonderfully brave about it. She never complains—she + suffers more than we know, I think. I don't think this house is good for + her. Father died here and her bedroom now is the room where he died. That + is not good for her, I'm sure. Rupert and I both are agreed about it, but + we cannot get her to change her mind. She can be very determined." + </p> + <p> + Yes—Olva, remembering her as she sat so sternly before the fire, + knew that she could be determined. + </p> + <p> + "And I am afraid that your brother isn't very well either." + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with troubled eyes. "I am distressed about Rupert. He + has taken this death of his friend so terribly to heart. I have never + known him morbid about anything before. It is really strange because I + don't think he was greatly attached to Mr. Carfax. There were things I + know that he didn't like." + </p> + <p> + "Yes. He doesn't look the kind of fellow who would let his mind dwell on + things. He looks too healthy." + </p> + <p> + "No. He came in to see us for an hour last night and sat there without a + word. I played to him—he seemed not to hear it. And generally he + cares for music." + </p> + <p> + "I'm afraid"—their eyes met and Olva held hers until he had finished + his sentence—"I'm afraid that it must seem a little lonely and + gloomy for you here—in this house—after your years abroad." + </p> + <p> + She looked away from him into the fire. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," she said, speaking with sudden intensity. "I hate it. I have hated + it always—this house, Cambridge, the life we lead here. I love my + mother, but since I have been abroad something has happened to change her. + There is no confidence between us now. And it is lonely because she speaks + so little—I am afraid she is really very ill, but she refuses to see + a doctor. . . ." + </p> + <p> + Then her voice was softer again, and she leant forward a little towards + him. "And I have told you this, Mr. Dune, because if you will you can help + me—all of us. Do you know that she liked you immensely the other + even big? I have never known her take to any one at once, so strongly. She + told me afterwards that you had done her more good than fifty doctors—just + your being there—so that if, sometimes, you could come and see her——" + </p> + <p> + He did not know what it was that suddenly, at her words, brought the + terror back to him. He saw Mrs. Craven so upright, so motionless, looking + at him across the room—with recognition, with some implied claim. + Why, he had spoken scarcely ten words to her. How could he possibly have + been of any use to her? And then, afraid lest his momentary pause had been + noticeable, he said eagerly—- + </p> + <p> + "It is very kind of Mrs. Craven to say that. Of course I will come if she + really cares about it. I am not a man of many friends or many occupations. + . . ." + </p> + <p> + She broke in upon him— + </p> + <p> + "You could be if you cared. I know, because Rupert has told me. They all + think you wonderful, but you don't care. Don't throw away friends, Mr. + Dune—one can be so lonely without them." + </p> + <p> + Her voice shook a little and he was suddenly afraid that she was going to + cry. He bent towards her. + </p> + <p> + "I think, perhaps, we are alike in that, Miss Craven. We do not make our + friends easily, but they mean a great deal to us when they come. Yes, I <i>am</i> + lonely and I <i>am</i> a little tired of bearing my worries alone, in + silence. Perhaps I can help you to stand this life a little better if I + tell you that—mine is every bit as hard." + </p> + <p> + She turned to him eyes that were filled with gratitude. Her whole body + seemed to be touched with some new glow. Into the heart of their + consciousness of the situation that had arisen between them there came, + sharply, the sound of a shutting door. Then steps in the hall. + </p> + <p> + "That's Rupert," she said. + </p> + <p> + They both rose as he came into the room. He stood back in the shadow for a + moment as though surprised at Olva's presence. Then he came forward very + gravely. + </p> + <p> + "I've found something of yours, Dune," he said. It lay, gleaming, in his + hand. "Your matchbox." + </p> + <p> + Dune drew a sharp breath. Then he took it and looked at it. + </p> + <p> + "Where did you find it?" + </p> + <p> + "In Saunet Wood. Bunker and I have been for a walk there. Bunker found + it." + </p> + <p> + As the three of them stood there, motionless, in the middle of the dark + room, Olva caught, through the open door, the last sad fading breath of + the "Valse Triste." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII — TERROR + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + That night the cold fell, like a plague, upon the town. It came, sweeping + across the long low flats, crisping the dark canals with white frosted + ice, stiffening the thin reeds at the river's edge, taking each blade of + grass and holding it in its iron hand and then leaving it an independent + thing of cold and shining beauty. At last it blew in wild gales down the + narrow streets, throwing the colour of those grey walls against a sky of + the sharpest blue, making of each glittering star a frozen eye, carrying + in its arms a round red sun that it might fasten it, like a frosted + orange, against its hard blue canopy. + </p> + <p> + Already now, at half-past two of the afternoon, there were signs of the + early dusk. The blue was slowly being drained from the sky, and against + the low horizon a faint golden shadow soon to burn into the heart of the + cold blue, was hovering. + </p> + <p> + Olva Dune, turning into the King's Parade, was conscious of crowds of + people, of a gaiety and life that filled the air with sound. He checked + sternly with a furious exercise of self-control his impulse to creep back + into the narrow streets that he had just left. + </p> + <p> + "It's an Idea," he repeated over and over, as he stood there. "It's an + Idea. . . . You are like any one else—you are as you were . . . + before . . . everything. There is no mark—no one knows." + </p> + <p> + For it seemed to him that above him, around him, always before him and + behind him there was a grey shadow, and that as men approached him this + shadow, bending, whispered, and, as they came to him, they flung at him a + frightened glance . . . and passed. + </p> + <p> + If only he might take the arm of any one of those bright and careless + young men and say to him, "I killed Carfax—thus and thus it was." + Oh! the relief! the lifting of the weight! For then—and only then—this + pursuing Shadow, so strangely grave, not cruel, but only relentless, would + step back. Because that confession—how clearly he knew it!—was + the thing that God demanded. So long as he kept silence he resisted the + Pursuer—so long as he resisted the Pursuer he must fly, he must + escape—first into Silence, then into Sound, then back again to + Silence. Somewhere, behind his actual consciousness: there was the + knowledge that, did he once yield himself, life would be well, but that + yielding meant Confession, Renunciation, Devotion. It was not because it + was Carfax that he had killed, but it was because it was God that had + spoken to him, that he fled. + </p> + <p> + A fortnight ago he would have been already defeated—the Pursuer + should have caught him, bound him, done with him as he would. But now—in + that same instant that young Craven had looked at him with challenge in + his eyes, in that instant also he, Olva, had looked at Margaret. + </p> + <p> + In that silence, yesterday evening, in the dark drawing-room the two facts + had together leapt at him—he loved Margaret Craven, he was suspected + by Rupert Craven. Love had thus, terribly, grimly, and yet so wonderfully, + sprung into his heart that had never, until now, known its lightest touch. + Because of it—because Margaret Craven must never know what he had + done—he must fight Craven, must lie and twist and turn. . . . His + soul must belong to Margaret Craven, not to this terrible, unperturbed, + pursuing God. + </p> + <p> + All night he had fought for control. A very little more and he would rush + crying his secret to the whole world; slowly he had summoned calm back to + him. Rupert Craven should be defeated; he would, quietly, visit Sannet + Wood, face it in its naked fact, stand before it and examine it—and + fight down once and for all this imagination of God. + </p> + <p> + Those glances that men flung upon him, that sudden raising of the eyes to + his face . . . a man greeted him, another man waved his hand always this + same suspicion . . . the great grey shadow that bent and whispered in + their ears. + </p> + <p> + He saw, too, another picture. High above him some great power was seated, + and down to earth there bent a mighty Hand. Into this Hand very gently, + very tenderly, certain figures were drawn—Mrs. Craven, Margaret, + Rupert, Bunning, even Lawrence. Olva was dragging with him, into the heart + of some terrible climax, these so diverse persons; he could not escape now—other + lives were twisted into the fabric of his own. + </p> + <p> + And yet with this certainty of the futility of it, he must still struggle + . . . to the very end. + </p> + <p> + On that cold day the world seemed to stand, as men gather about a coursing + match, with hard eyes and jeering faces to watch the hopeless flight. . . + . + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + He fetched Banker from the stable where he was kept and set off along the + hard white road. He had behaved very badly to Bunker, a but the dog showed + no signs of delight at his release. On other days when he had been kept in + his stable for a considerable time he had gone mad with joy and jumped at + his master, wagging his whole body in excitement. Now he walked very + slowly by Olva's side, a little way behind him; when Olva spoke to him he + wagged his tail, but as though it were duty that impelled it. + </p> + <p> + The air grew colder aid colder—slowly now there had stolen on to the + heart of the blue sky white pinnacles of cloud—a dazzling whiteness, + but catching, mysteriously, the shadow of the gold light that heralded the + setting sun. These clouds were charged with snow; as they hung there they + seemed to radiate from their depths an even more piercing coldness. They + hung above Olva like a vast mountain range and had in their outline so + sharp and real an existence that they were part of the hard black horizon, + rising, immediately, out of the long, low, shivering flats. + </p> + <p> + There was no sound in all the world; behind him, sharply, the Cambridge + towers bit the sky—before him like a clenched hand was the little + wood. + </p> + <p> + The silence seemed to have a rhythm and voice of its own so that if one + listened, quite clearly the tramp of a marching army came over the level + ground. Always an army marching—and when suddenly a bird rose from + the canal with a sharp cry the tramping was caught, with the bird, for an + instant, into the air, and then when the cry was ended sank down again. + The wood enlarged; it lay upon the cold land now like a man's head; a man + with a cap. Spaces between the trees were eyes and it seemed that he was + lying behind the rim of the world and leaning his head upon the edge of it + and gazing. . . . + </p> + <p> + Bunker suddenly stopped and looked up at his master. + </p> + <p> + "Come on," Olva turned on to him sharply. + </p> + <p> + The dog looked at him, pleading. Then in Olva's dark stern face he seemed + to see that there was no relenting—that wood must be faced. He moved + forward again, but slowly, reluctantly. All this nonsense that Lawrence + had talked about Druids. We will soon see what to make of that. And yet, + in the wood, it did seem as though there were something waiting. It was + now no longer a man's head—only a dark, melancholy band of trees, + dead black now against the high white clouds. + </p> + <p> + There had risen in Olva the fighting spirit. Fear was still there, ghastly + fear, but also an anger, a rage. Why should he be thus tormented? What had + he done? Who was Carfax that the slaying of him should be so unforgettable + a sin? Moreover, had it been the mere vulgar hauntings of remorse, terrors + of a frightened conscience, he could have turned upon himself the contempt + that any Dune must deserve for so ignoble a submission. + </p> + <p> + But here there were other things—some-thing that no human resolution + could combat. He seized then eagerly on the things that he could conquer—the + suspicions of Rupert Craven, the rivalry of Cardillac, the confidences of + Bunning, . . . the grave tenderness of Margaret Craven . . . these things + he would clutch and hold, let the Pursuing Spirits do what they would. + </p> + <p> + As he entered the dark wood a few flakes of snow were falling. He knew + where the Druid Stones lay. He had once been shown them by some + undergraduate interested in such things. They lay a little to the right, + below the little crooked path and above the Hollow. + </p> + <p> + The wood was not dripping now—held in the iron hand of the frost the + very leaves on the ground seemed to be made of metal; the bare twisted + branches of the trees shone with frosty—the earth crackled beneath + his foot and in the wood's silence, when he broke a twig with his boot the + sound shot into the air and rang against the listening stillness. + </p> + <p> + He looked at the Hollow, Bunker close at his heels. He could see the spot + where he had first stood, talking to Carfax—there where the ferns + now glistened with silver. There was the place where Carfax had fallen. + Bunker was smelling with his head down at the ground. What did the dog + remember? What had Craven meant when he said that Bunker had found the + matchbox? + </p> + <p> + He stood silently looking down at the Hollow. In his heart now there was + no terror. When, during these last days, he had been fighting his fear it + had always seemed to him that the heart of it lay in this Hollow. He had + always seen the dripping fern, smelt the wet earth, heard the sound of the + mist falling from the trees. Now the earth was clear and hard and cold. + The great white mountains drove higher into the sky, very softly and + gently a few white flakes were falling. + </p> + <p> + With a great relief, almost a sigh of thank-fulness, he turned back to the + Druids' Stones. There they were—two of them standing upright, + stained with lichen, grey and weather-beaten, one lying flat, hollowed a + little in the centre. The ferns stood above them and the bare branches of + the trees crossed in strange shapes against the sky. + </p> + <p> + Here, too, there was a peaceful, restful silence. No more was God in these + quiet stones than He had been in that noisy theatrical Revival Meeting—Lawrence + was wrong. Those old religions were dead. No more could the Greek Gods + pass smiling into the temples of their worshippers, no more Wodin, Thor + and the rest may demand their bloody sacrifice. + </p> + <p> + These old stones are dead. The Gods are dead—but God? . . . + </p> + <p> + He stayed there for a while and the snow fell more heavily. The golden + light had faded, the high white clouds had swallowed the blue. There would + soon be storm. + </p> + <p> + In the wood—strangest of ironies—there had been peace. + </p> + <p> + Now he started down the road again and was conscious, as the wood slipped + back into distance, of some vague alarm. + </p> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> + <p> + The world was now rapidly transformed. There had been promised a blaze of + glory, but the sun, red and angry, had been drowned by the thick grey + clouds that now flooded the air—dimly seen for an instant outlined + against the grey—then suddenly non-existent, leaving a world like a + piece of crumpled paper white and dark to all its boundaries. + </p> + <p> + The snow fell now more swiftly but always gently, imperturbably—almost + it might seem with the whispering intention of some important message. + </p> + <p> + Olva was intensely cold. He buttoned his coat tightly up to his ears, but + nevertheless the air was so biting that it hurt. Bunker, with his head + down, drove against the snow that was coming now ever more thickly. + </p> + <p> + The peace that there had been in the little wood was now utterly gone. The + air seemed full of voices. They came with the snow, and as the flakes blew + more closely against his face and coat there seemed to press about him a + multitude of persons. + </p> + <p> + He drove forward, but this sense of oppression increased with every step. + The wood had been swallowed by the storm. Olva felt like a man who has + long been struggling with some vice; insidiously the temptation has grown + in force and power—his brain, once so active in the struggle, is now + dimmed and dulled. His power of resistance, once so vigorous, is now + confused—confusion grows to paralysis—he can only now stare, + distressed, at the dark temptation, there have swept over him such strong + waters that struggle is no longer of avail—one last clutch at the + vice, one last desperate and hateful pleasure, and he is gone. . . . + </p> + <p> + Olva knew that behind him in the storm the Pursuit was again upon him. + That brief respite in the wood had not been long granted him. The snow + choked him, blinded him, his body was desperately cold, his soul trembling + with fear. On every side he was surrounded—the world had vanished, + only the thin grey body of his dog, panting at his side, could be dimly + seen. + </p> + <p> + God had not been in the wood, but God was in the storm. . . . + </p> + <p> + A last desperate resistance held him. He stayed where he was and shouted + against the blinding snow. + </p> + <p> + "There <i>is</i> no God. . . . There <i>is</i> no God." + </p> + <p> + Suddenly his voice sank to a whisper. "There <i>is</i> no God," he + muttered. + </p> + <p> + The dog was standing, his eyes wide with terror, his feet apart, his body + quivering. + </p> + <p> + Olva gazed into the storm. Then, desperately, he started to run. . . . + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII — REVELATION OF BUNNING (I) + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + On that evening the College Debating Society exercised its mind over the + question of Naval Defence. + </p> + <p> + One gentleman, timid of voice, uncertain in wit, easily dismayed by the + derisive laughter of the opposite party, asserted that "This House + considers the Naval policy of the present Government fatal to the + country's best interests." An eager politician, with a shrill voice and a + torrent of words, denied this statement. The College, with the exception + of certain gentlemen destined for the Church (they had been told by their + parents to speak on every possible public occasion in order to be ready + for a prospective pulpit), displayed a sublime and somnolent indifference. + The four gentlemen on the paper had prepared their speeches beforehand and + were armed with notes and a certain nervous fluency. For the rest, the + question was but slightly assisted. The prospective members of the Church + thought of many things to say until they rose to their feet when they + could only remember "that the last gentleman's speech bad been the most + preposterous thing they had ever had the pleasure of listening to—and + that, er—er—the Navy was all right, and, er—if the + gentleman who had spoken last but two thought it wasn't, well, all they—er—could + say was that it reminded them—er—of a story they had once + heard (here follows story without point, conclusion or brevity)—and—er—in + fact the Navy was all right. . . ." + </p> + <p> + The Debate, in short, was languishing when Dune and Cardillac entered the + room together. Here was an amazing thing. + </p> + <p> + It was well known that only last night Cardillac and Dune had both been + proposed for the office of President of the Wolves. The Wolves, a society + of twelve founded for the purpose of dining well and dressing beautifully, + was by far the smartest thing that Saul's possessed. It was famous + throughout the University for the noise and extravagance of its dinners, + and you might not belong to it unless you had played for the University on + at least one occasion in some game or another and unless, be it + understood, you were, in yourself, quite immensely desirable. Towards the + end of every Christmas term a President for the ensuing year was elected; + he must be a second year man, and it was considered by the whole college + that this was the highest honour that the gods could possibly, during your + stay at Cambridge, confer upon you. Even the members of the Christian + Union, horrified though they were by the amount of wine that was drunk on + dining occasions and the consequent peril to their own goods and chattels, + bowed to the shining splendour of the fortunate hero. It had never yet + been known that a President of the Wolves should also be a member of the + Christian Union, but one must never despair, and nets, the most attractive + and genial of nets, were flung to catch the great man. + </p> + <p> + On the present occasion it had been generally understood that Cardillac + would be elected without any possible opposition. Dune had not for a + moment occurred to any one. He had; during his first term, when his + football prowess had passed, swinging through the University, been elected + to the Wolves, but he had only attended one dinner and had then remained + severely and unpleasantly sober. There was no other possible rival to + Cardillac, to his distinction, his power of witty and malicious + after-dinner speaking, his wonderful clothes, his admirable football, his + haughty indifference. He would of course be elected. + </p> + <p> + And then, some three weeks ago, this wonderful, unexpected development of + Olva Dune had startled the world. His football, his sudden geniality (he + had been seen, it was asserted, at one of Med-Tetloe's revival meetings + with, of all people in the world, Bunning), his air of being able to do + anything whatever if he wished to exert himself, here was a character + indeed—so wonderful that it was felt, even by the most patriotic of + Saulines, that he ought, in reality, to have belonged to St. Martin's. + </p> + <p> + It became at once, of course, a case of rivalry between Dune and + Cardillac, and it was confidently expected that Dune would be victorious + in every part of the field. + </p> + <p> + Cardillac had reigned for a considerable period and there were many men to + whom he had been exceedingly offensive. Dune, although he admitted no one + to closer intimacy, was offensive never. If, moreover, you had seen him + play the other day against the Harlequins, you could but fall down on your + knees and worship. Here, too, he rivalled Cardillac. Tester, Buchan, and + Whymper were quite certain of their places in the University side—Whymper + because he was the greatest three-quarter that Cambridge had had for many + seasons, and Tester and Buchan because they had been at Fettes together + and Buchan had played inside right to Tester's outside since the very + tenderest age; they therefore understood one another backward. There + remained then only this fourth place, and Cardillac seemed certain enough + . . . until Dune's revival. And now it depended on Whymper. He would + choose, of the two men, the one who suited him the better. Cardillac had + played with him more than had Dune. Cardillac was safe, steady, reliable. + Dune was uncertain, capricious, suddenly indifferent. On the other hand + not Whymper himself could rival the brilliance of Dune's game against the + Harlequins. That was in a place by itself—let him play like that at + Queen's Club in December and no Oxford defence could stop him. + </p> + <p> + So it was argued, so discussed. Certain, at any rate, that Dune's + recrudescence threatened the ruin of Cardillac's two dearest ambitions, + and Cardillac did not easily either forget or forgive. + </p> + <p> + And yet behold them now, gravely, the gaze of the entire company, entering + together, sitting together by the fire, watching with serious eyes the + clumsy efforts of an unhappily ambitious Freshman to make clear his + opinions of the Navy, the Government and the British Islands generally—only, + ultimately, producing a tittering, stammering apology for having burdened + so long with his hapless clamour, the Debate. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + Olva liked Cardillac—Cardillac liked Olva. They both in their + attitude to College affairs saw beyond the College gates into the wide and + bright world. Cardillac, when it had seemed that no danger could threaten + either his election to the Wolves or the acquisition of his Football Blue, + had regarded both honours quietly and with indifference. It amazed him now + when both these Prizes were seriously threatened that he should still + appreciate and even seek out Dune's company. + </p> + <p> + Had it been any other man in the College he would have been a very active + enemy, but here was the one man who had that larger air, that finer style + whose gravity was beautiful, whose soul was beyond Wolves and Rugby + football, whose future in the real world promised to be of a fine and + highly ordered kind. Cardillac wished eagerly that these things might yet + be his, but if he were to be beaten, then, of all men in the world, let it + be by Dune. In his own scant, cynical estimate of his fellow-beings Dune + alone demanded a wide and appreciative attention. + </p> + <p> + To Olva on this evening it mattered but little where he was or what he + did. The snow had ceased to fall, and now, under a starry sky, lay white + and glistening clear; but still with him storm seemed to hover, its snow + beating his body, its fury yieling him no respite. + </p> + <p> + And now there was no longer any doubt. He faced it with the most + matter-of-fact self-possession of which he was capable. Some-thing was + waiting for his surrender. He figured it, sitting quietly back in the + reading-room, listening to the Debate, watching the faces around him, as + the tracing of some one who was dearly loved. There was nothing stranger + in it all than his own certainty that the Power that pursued him was + tender. And here he crossed the division between the Real and the Unreal, + because his present consciousness of this Power was as actual as his + consciousness of the chairs and tables that filled the reading-room. That + was the essential thing that made the supreme gulf between himself and his + companions. It was not because he had murdered Carfax but because he was + now absolutely conscious of God that he was so alone. He could not touch + his human companions, he could scarcely see them. It was through this + isolation that God was driving him to confession. Now, in the outer Court, + huge against the white dazzling snow, the great shadow was hovering, its + head piercing the stars, its arms outstretched. Let him surrender and at + once there would be infinite peace, but with surrender must come + submission, confession . . . with confession he must lose the one thing + that he desired—Margaret Craven . . . that he might go and talk to + her, watch her, listen to her voice. Meanwhile he must not think. If he + allowed his brain, for an instant, to rest, it was flooded with the + sweeping consciousness of the Presence—always he must be doing + something, his football, his companions, and often at the end of it all, + calmly, quietly, betrayed—hearing above all the clatter that he + might make the gentle accents of that Voice. He remembered that peace that + he had had in St. Martin's Chapel on the day of the discovery of the body. + What he would give to reclaim that now! + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile he must battle; must quiet Craven's suspicions, must play + football, join company with men who seemed to him now like shadows. As he + glanced round at them—at Lawrence, Bunning, Galleon Cardillac—they + seemed to have far less existence than the grey shadow in the outer Court. + Sounds passed him like smoke—the lights grew faint in his eyes . . . + he was being drawn out into a world that was all of ice—black ice + stretching to every horizon; on the edge of it, vast against the night + sky, was the Grey Figure, waiting. + </p> + <p> + "Come to Me. Tell Me that you will follow Me. I spoke to you in the wood. + You have broken My law. . . ." + </p> + <p> + "Lot of piffle," he heard Cardillac's voice from a great distance. "These + freshers are always gassing." The electric light, seen through a cloud of + tobacco smoke, came slowly back to him, dull globes of colour. + </p> + <p> + "It's so hot—I'm cutting," he whispered to Cardillac, and slipped + out of the room. + </p> + <p> + He climbed to his room, flung back his door and saw that his light was + turned on. + </p> + <p> + Facing him, waiting for him, was Bunning. + </p> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> + <p> + "If you don't want me——" he began with his inane giggle. + </p> + <p> + "Sit down." Olva pulled out the whisky and two siphons of soda. "If I + didn't want you I'd say so." + </p> + <p> + He filled himself a strong glass of whisky and soda and began feverishly + to drink. + </p> + <p> + Bunning sat down. + </p> + <p> + "Don't be such a blooming fool. Take off your gown if you're going to + stop." + </p> + <p> + Bunning meekly took off his gown. His spectacles seemed so large that they + swallowed up the rest of his face; the spectacles and the enormous + flat-toed boots were the principal features of Bunning's attire. He sat + down again and gazed at Olva with the eyes of a devoted dog. Olva looked + at him. Over Bunning's red wrists the brown ends of a Jaeger vest + protruded from under the shirt. + </p> + <p> + "I say, why don't you dress properly?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't know—-" began Bunning. + </p> + <p> + "Well, the sleeves of your vest needn't come down like that. It looks + horribly dirty. Turn 'em up." + </p> + <p> + Bunning, blushing almost to tears, turned them back. + </p> + <p> + "There's no need to make yourself worse than you are, you know," Olva + finished his whisky and poured out some more. "Why do you come here? . . . + I'm always beastly to you." + </p> + <p> + "As long as you let me come—I don't mind how beastly you are." + </p> + <p> + "But what do you get from it?" + </p> + <p> + Bunning looked down at his huge boots. + </p> + <p> + "Everything. But it isn't that—it is that, without being here, I + haven't got anything else." + </p> + <p> + "Well, you needn't wear such boots as that—and your shirts and + things aren't clean. . . . You don't mind my telling you, do you?" + </p> + <p> + "No, I like it, Nobody's ever told me." + </p> + <p> + Here obviously was a new claim for intimacy and this Olva hurriedly + disavowed. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! It's only for your own good, you know. Fellows will like you better + if you're decently dressed. Why hasn't any one ever told you?" + </p> + <p> + "They'd given me up at home." Bunning heaved a great sigh. + </p> + <p> + "Why? Who are your people?" + </p> + <p> + "My father's a parson in Yorkshire. They're all clergymen in my family—uncles, + cousins, everybody—my elder brother. I was to have been a + clergyman." + </p> + <p> + "<i>Was</i> to have been? Aren't you going to be one now?" + </p> + <p> + "No—not since I met you." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, but you mustn't take such a step on my account. I don't want to + prevent you. I've nothing to do with it. I should think you'd make a very + good parson." + </p> + <p> + Olva was brutal. He felt that in Bunning's moist devoted eyes there was a + dim pain. But he was brutal because his whole soul revolted against + sentimentality, not at all because his soul revolted against Bunning. + </p> + <p> + "No, I shouldn't make a good parson. I never wanted to be one really. But + when your house is full of it, as our house was, you're driven. When it + wasn't relations it was all sorts of people in the parish—helpers + and workers—women mostly. I hated them." + </p> + <p> + Here was a real note of passion! Bunning seemed, for an instant, to be + quite vigorous. + </p> + <p> + "That's why I'm so untidy now," Bunning went desperately on; "nobody cared + how I looked. I was stupid at school, my reports were awful, and I was a + day boy. It is very bad for any one to be a day boy—very!" he added + reflectively, as though he were recalling scenes and incidents. + </p> + <p> + "Yes?" said Olva encouragingly. He was being drawn by Bunning's artless + narration away from the Shadow. It was still there, its arm outstretched + above the snowy court, but Bunning seemed, in some odd way, to intervene. + </p> + <p> + "I always wanted to find God in those days. It sounds a stupid thing to + say, but they used to speak about Him—mother and the rest—just + as though He lived down the street. They knew all about Him and I used to + wonder why I didn't know too. But I didn't. It wasn't real to me. I used + to make myself think that it was, but it wasn't." + </p> + <p> + "Why didn't you talk to your mother about it?— + </p> + <p> + "I did. But they were always too busy with missions and things. And then + there was my elder brother. <i>He</i> understood about God and went to all + the Bible meetings and things, and he was always so neat-never dirty—I + used to wonder how he did it . . . always so neat." + </p> + <p> + Bunning took off his great spectacles and wiped them with a very dirty + handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + "And had you no friends?" + </p> + <p> + "None—nobody. I didn't want them after a bit. I was afraid of + everybody. I used to go down all the side-streets between school and home + for fear lest I should meet some one. I was always very nervous as a boy—very. + I still am." + </p> + <p> + "Nervous of people?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, of everybody. And of things, too—things. I still am. You'd be + surprised. . . . It's odd because none of the other Bunnings are nervous. + I used to have fancies about God." + </p> + <p> + "What sort of fancies?" + </p> + <p> + "I used to see Him when I was in bed like a great big shadow, all up + against the wall. A grey shadow with his head ever so high. That's how I + used to think of Him. I expect that all sounds nonsense to you." + </p> + <p> + "No, not at all!" said Olva. + </p> + <p> + "I think they thought me nearly an idiot at home—not sane at all. + But they didn't think of me very often. They used to apologise for me when + people came to tea. I wasn't clever, of course—that's why they + thought I'd make a good parson." + </p> + <p> + He paused—then very nervously he went on. "But now I've met you I + shan't be. Nothing can make me. I've always watched you. I used to look at + you in chapel. You're just as different from me as any one can be, and + that's why you're like God to me. I don't want you to be decent to me. I + think I'd rather you weren't. But I like to come in sometimes and hear you + say that I'm dirty and untidy. That shows that you've noticed." + </p> + <p> + "But I'm not at all the sort of person to make a hero of," Olva said + hurriedly. "I don't want you to feel like that about we. That's all + sentimentality. You mustn't feel like that about anybody. You must stand + on your own legs." + </p> + <p> + "I never have," said Burning, very solemnly, "and I never will. I've + always had somebody to make a hero of. I would love to die for you, I + would really. It's the only sort of thing that I can do, because I'm not + clever. I know you think me very stupid." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I do," said Olva, "and you mustn't talk like a schoolgirl. If we're + friends and I let you come in here, you mustn't let your vest come over + your cuffs and you must take those spots off your waistcoat, and brush + your hair and clean your nails, and you must just be sensible and have a + little humour. Why don't you play football?" + </p> + <p> + "I can't play games, I'm very shortsighted." + </p> + <p> + "Well, you must take some sort of exercise. Run round Parker's Piece or + something, or go and run at Fenner's. You'll get so fat." + </p> + <p> + "I <i>am</i> getting fat. I don't think it matters much what I look like." + </p> + <p> + "It matters what every one looks like. And now you'd better cut. I've got + to go out and see a man." + </p> + <p> + Burning submissively rose. He said no more but bundled out of the door in + his usual untidy fashion. Olva came after him and banged his "oak" behind + him. In Outer Court, looking now so vast and solemn in the silence of its + snow, Bunning, stopping, pointed to the grey buildings that towered over + them. + </p> + <p> + "It was against a wall like that that I used to imagine God—on a + night like this—you'll think that very silly." He hurriedly added, + "There's Marshall coming. I know he'll be at me about those Christian + Union Cards. Good-night." He vanished. + </p> + <p> + But it was not Marshall. It was Rupert Craven. The boy was walking + hurriedly, his eyes on the ground. He was suddenly conscious of some one + and looked up. The change in him was extraordinary. His eyes had the + heavy, dazed look of one who has not slept for weeks. His face was a + yellow white, his hair unbrushed, and his mouth moved restlessly. He + started when he saw Olva. + </p> + <p> + "Hallo, Craven. You're looking seedy. What's the matter?" + </p> + <p> + "Nothing, thanks. . . . Good-night." + </p> + <p> + "No, but wait a minute. Come up to my rooms and have some coffee. I + haven't seen you for days." + </p> + <p> + A fortnight ago Craven would have accepted with joy. Now he shook his + head. + </p> + <p> + "No, thanks. I'm tired: I haven't been sleeping very well." + </p> + <p> + "Why's that? Overwork?" + </p> + <p> + "No, it's nothing. I don't know why it is." + </p> + <p> + "You ought to see somebody. I know what not sleeping means." + </p> + <p> + "Why? . . . Are <i>you</i> sleeping badly?" Craven's eyes met Olva's. + </p> + <p> + "No, I'm splendid, thanks. But I had a bout of insomnia years ago. I + shan't forget it." + </p> + <p> + "You <i>look</i> all right." Cravan's eyes were busily searching Olva's + face. Then suddenly they dropped. + </p> + <p> + "I'm all right," he said hurriedly. "Tired, that's all." + </p> + <p> + "Why do you never come and see me now?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I will come—sometime. I'm busy." + </p> + <p> + "What about?" + </p> + <p> + Olva stood, a stern dark figure, against the snow. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, just busy." Craven suddenly looked up as though he were going to ask + Olva a question. Then he apparently changed his mind, muttered a + good-night and disappeared round the corner of the building. + </p> + <p> + Olva was alone in the Court. From some room came the sound of voices and + laughter, from some other room a piano—some one called a name in + Little Court. A sheet of stars drew the white light from the snow to + heaven. + </p> + <p> + Olva turned very slowly and entered his black stairway. + </p> + <p> + In his heart he was crying, "How long can I stand this? Another day? + Another hour? This loneliness. . . . I must break it. I must tell some + one. I <i>must</i> tell some one." + </p> + <p> + As he entered his room he thought that he saw against the farther wall an + old gilt mirror and in the light of it a dark figure facing him; a voice, + heavy with some great overburdening sorrow, spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + "How terrible a thing it is to be alone with God!" + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX — REVELATION OF BUNNING (II) + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + The next day the frost broke, and after a practice game on the Saul's + ground, in preparation for a rugby match at the end of the week, Olva, + bathed and feeling physically a fine, overwhelming fitness, went to see + Margaret Craven. + </p> + <p> + This sense of his physical well-being was extraordinary. Mentally he was + nearly beaten, almost at the limit of his endurance. Spiritually the + catastrophe hovered more closely above him at every advancing moment, but, + physically, he had never, in all his life before, felt such magnificent + health. He had been sleeping badly now for weeks. He had been eating very + little, but he felt no weariness, no faintness. It was as though his body + were urging upon him the importance of his resistance, as though he were + perceiving, too, with unmistakable clearness the cleavage that there was + between body and soul. And indeed this vigour <i>did</i> give him an + energy to set about the numberless things that he had arranged to fill + every moment of his day—the many little tinkling bells that he had + set going to hide the urgent whisper of that other voice. He carried his + day through with a rush, a whirl, so that he might be in bed again at + night almost before he had finished his dressing in the morning—no + pause, no opportunity for silence. . . . + </p> + <p> + And now he must see Margaret Craven, see her for herself, but also see her + to talk to her about her brother. How much did Rupert Craven know? How + much—and here was the one tremendous question—had he told his + sister? As Olva waited, once again, in the musty hall, saw once more the + dim red glass of the distant window, smelt again the scent of oranges, his + heart was beating so that he could not hear the old woman's trembling + voice. How would Margaret receive him? Would there be in her eyes that + shadow of distrust that he always saw now in Rupert's? His knees were + trembling and he had to stay for an instant and pull himself together + before he crossed the drawing-room threshold. + </p> + <p> + And then he was, instantly, reassured. Margaret was alone in the dim room, + and as she came to meet him he saw in her approach to him that she had + been wanting him. In her extended hands he found a welcome that implied + also a need. He felt, as he met her and greeted her and looked again into + the grave, tender eyes that he had been wanting so badly ever since he had + seen them last, that there was nothing more wonderful than the way that + their relationship advanced between every meeting. They met, exchanged a + word or two and parted, but in the days that separated them their spirits + seemed to leap together, to crowd into lonely hours a communion that bound + them more closely than any physical intimacy could do. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! I'm so glad you've come. I had hoped it, wanted it." + </p> + <p> + He sat down close to her, his dark eyes on her face. + </p> + <p> + "You're in trouble? I can see." + </p> + <p> + She bent her eyes gravely on the fire, and as slowly she tried to put + together the things that she wished to say he felt, in her earnest + thoughtfulness, a rest, a relief, so wonderful that it was like plunging + his body into cool water after a long and arid journey. + </p> + <p> + "No, it is nothing. I don't want to make things more overwhelming than + they are. Only, it is, I think, simply that during these last days when + mother and Rupert have both been ill, I have been overwhelmed." + </p> + <p> + "Rupert?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, we'll come to him in a moment. You must remember," she smiled up at + him as she said it, "that I'm not the least the kind of person who makes + the best of things—in fact I'm not a useful person at all. I suppose + being abroad so long with my music spoiled me, but whatever it is I seem + unable to wrestle with things. They frighten me, overwhelm me, as I say . + . . I'm frightened now." + </p> + <p> + He looked up at her last word and caught a corner reflection in the old + gilt mirror—a reflection of a multitude of little things; silver + boxes, photograph frames, old china pots, little silk squares, lying like + scattered treasures from a wreck on a dark sea. + </p> + <p> + "What are you frightened about?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, there it is—nothing I suppose. Only I'm not good at managing + sick people, especially when there's nothing definitely the matter with + them. It's a case with all three of us—a case of nerves." + </p> + <p> + "Well, that's as serious a thing as any other disease." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but I don't know what to do with it. Mother lies there all day. She + seldom speaks, she scarcely eats anything. She entirely refuses to have a + doctor. But worse than that is the extraordinary feeling that she has had + during this last week about Rupert. She refuses to see him," Margaret + Craven finally brought out. + </p> + <p> + "Refuses?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, she says that he is altered to her. She says that he will not let + her alone, that he is imagining things. Poor Rupert is most terribly + distressed. He is imagining nothing. He would do anything for her, he is + devoted to her." + </p> + <p> + "Since when has she had this idea?" + </p> + <p> + "You remember the day that you came last? when Rupert came in and had + found your matchbox. It began about then. . . . Of course Rupert has not + been well—he has never been well since that dreadful death of Mr. + Carfax, and certainly since that day when you were here I think that he's + been worse—strange, utterly unlike himself, sleeping badly, eating + nothing. Poor, poor Rupert, I would do anything for him, for them both, + but I am so utterly, utterly useless, What can I do?" she finally appealed + to him. + </p> + <p> + "You said once," he answered her slowly, "that I could help you. If you + still feel that, tell me, and I will do anything, anything. You know that + I will do anything." + </p> + <p> + They came together, in that terrible room, like two children out of the + dark. He suddenly caught her hand and she let him hold it. Then, very + gently, she withdrew it. + </p> + <p> + "I think that you can make all the difference," she answered slowly. + "Mother often speaks of you. I told you before that she wants so much to + see you, and if you would do that, if you would go up, for just a little + time, and sit with her, I believe you would soothe her as no one else can. + I don't know why I feel that, but I know that she feels it too. You <i>are</i> + restful," she said suddenly, with a smile, flung up at him. + </p> + <p> + And again, as on the earlier occasion, he shrank from the thing that she + asked him. He had felt, from the very moment this afternoon that he had + entered the house, that that thing would be asked of him. Mrs. Craven + wanted him. He could feel the compulsion of her wish drawing him through + walls and floors and all the obstructions of the world. + </p> + <p> + "Of course I'll go," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Ah! that will help. It would be so good of you. Poor mother, it's lonely + for her up there all day, and I know that she thinks about things, about + father, and it's not good for her. You might perhaps say a word too about + Rupert. I cannot imagine what it is that she is feeling about him." She + paused, and then with a sigh, rising from their chair, longingly brought + out, "Oh! but for all of us! to get away—out of this house, out of + this place, that's the thing we want!" + </p> + <p> + She stood there in her black dress, so simply, so appealingly before him, + that it was all that he could do not to catch her in his arms and bold + her. He did indeed rise and stand beside her, and there in silence, with + the dim room about them, the oppressive silence so ominous and sinister, + they came together with a closeness that no earlier intercourse had given + them. + </p> + <p> + Olva seemed, for a short space, to be relieved from his burdens. For them + both, so young, so helpless against powers that were ruthless in the + accomplishment of wider destinies, they were allowed to find in these + silent minutes a brief reprieve. + </p> + <p> + Then, with the sudden whirring and shrill clatter of an ancient clock, + action began again, but before the striking hour had entirely died away, + he said to her, "Whatever happens, we are, at any rate, friends. We can + snatch a moment together even out of the worst catastrophe." + </p> + <p> + "You're afraid . . . ?" Her breath caught, as she flung a look about the + room. + </p> + <p> + "One never knows." + </p> + <p> + "It is all so strange. There in Dresden everything was so happy, so + undisturbed, the music and one's friends; it was all so natural. And now—here—with + Rupert and mother—it's like walking in one's sleep." + </p> + <p> + "Well, I'll walk with you," he assured her. + </p> + <p> + But indeed that was exactly what it <i>was</i> like, he thought, as he + climbed the old and creaking stairs. How often had one dreamed of the old + dark house, the dusty latticed windows, the stairs with the gaping boards, + at last that thin dark passage into which doors so dimly opened, that had + black chasms at either end of it, whose very shadows seemed to demand the + dripping of some distant water and the shudder of some trembling blind. In + a dream too there was that sense of inevitability, of treading + unaccustomed ways with an assured, accustomed tread that was with him now. + The old woman who had conducted him stopped at a door, hidden by the dusk, + and knocked. She opened it and wheezed out— + </p> + <p> + "Mr. Dune, m'am;" and then, standing back for him to pass, left him + inside. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed he was instantly conscious of an overwhelming desire + for air, a longing to fling open the little diamond-paned window. The + ceiling was very low and a fierce fire burned in the fireplace. There was + little furniture, only a huge white bed hovered in the background. Olva + was conscious of a dark figure lying on a low chair by the fire, a figure + that gave you instantly those long white hands and those burning eyes and + gave you afterwards more slowly the rest of the outline. But its supreme + quality was its immobility. That head, that body, those hands, never + moved, only behind its dark outline the bright fire crackled and flung its + shadows upon the wall. + </p> + <p> + "I am sorry that you are not so well." + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Craven's dark eyes searched his face. "You are restful to me. I like + you to come. But I would not intrude upon your time." + </p> + <p> + Olva said, "I am very glad to come if I can be of any service. If there is + anything that I can do." + </p> + <p> + The eyes seemed the only part of her body that lived. It was the eyes that + spoke. "No, there is nothing that any one can do. I do not care for + talking. Soon I will be downstairs again, I hope. It is lonely for my + daughter." + </p> + <p> + "There is Rupert." + </p> + <p> + At the mention of the name her eyes were suddenly sheathed. It was like + the instant quenching of some light. She did not answer him. + </p> + <p> + "Tell me about yourself. What you do, what you care about . . . your + life." + </p> + <p> + He told her a little about his home, his father, but he had a strange, + overwhelming conviction that she already knew. He felt, also, that she + regarded these things that he told her as preliminaries to something else + that he would presently say. He paused. + </p> + <p> + "Yes?" she said. + </p> + <p> + "I am tiring you. I have talked enough. It is time for me to be back in + College." + </p> + <p> + She did not contradict him. She watched him as he said good-bye. For one + moment he touched her chill, unresponsive hand, for an instant their eyes, + dark, sombre, met. The thought flew to his brain, "My God, how lonely she + is . . ." and then, "My God, how lonely I am." Slowly and quietly he + closed the door behind him. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + That night the Shadow was nearer, more insistent; the closer it came the + more completely was the real world obscured. This obscurity was now + shutting oil from him everything; it was exactly as though his whole body + bad been struck numb so that he might touch, might hold, but could feel + nothing. Again it was as though he were confined in a damp, underground + cell and the world above his head was crying out with life and joy. In his + hand was the key of the door; he had only to use it. + </p> + <p> + Submission—to be taken into those arms, to be told gently what he + must do, and then—Obedience—perhaps public confession, perhaps + death, struggling, ignominious death . . . at least, never again Margaret + Craven, never again her companionship, her understanding, never again to + help her and to feel that warm sure clasp of her hand. What would she say, + what would she do if she were told? That remained for him now the one + abiding question. But he could not doubt what she would do. He saw the + warmth fading from the eyes, the hard stern lines settling about the + mouth, the cold stiffening of her whole body. No, she must never know, and + if Rupert discovered the truth, he, Olva, must force him, for his sister's + sake, to keep silence. But if Rupert knew he would tell his sister, and + she would believe him. No use denials then. + </p> + <p> + And on the side of it all was the Shadow, with him now, with him in the + room. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me. +</pre> + <p> + The line from some poem came to him. It was true, true. His life that had + been the life of a man was now the life of a Liar—Liar to his + friends, Liar to Margaret, Liar to all the world—so his shuddering + soul cowered there, naked, creeping into the uttermost corner to escape + the Presence. + </p> + <p> + If only for an hour he might be again himself—-might shout aloud the + truth, boast of it, triumph in it, be naked in the glory of it. Day by day + the pressure had been increased, day by day his loneliness had grown, day + by day the pursuit had drawn closer. + </p> + <p> + And now he hardly recognized the real from the false. He paced his room + frantically. He felt that on the other side of the bedroom door there was + terror. He had turned on all his lights; a furious fire was blazing in the + grate; beyond the windows cold stars and an icy moon, but in here stifling + heat. + </p> + <p> + When Bunning (the clocks were striking eleven) came blinking in upon him + he was muttering—"Let me go, let me go. I killed him, I tell you. + I'm glad I killed him. . . . Oh! Let me alone! For pity's sake let me + alone! I <i>can't</i> confess! Don't you see that I can't confess? There's + Margaret. I must keep her—-afterwards when she knows me better I'll + tell her." + </p> + <p> + As he faced Bunning's staring glasses, the thought came to Him, "Am I + going mad?—Has it been too much for me?—-Mad?" + </p> + <p> + He stopped, wheeled round, caught the table with both hands, and leaned + over to Bunning, who stood, his mouth open, his cap and gown still on. + </p> + <p> + Olva very gravely said: "Come in, Bunning. Shut the door. 'Sport' it. + That's right. Take off your gown and sit down." + </p> + <p> + The man, still staring, white and frightened, sat down. + </p> + <p> + Olva spoke slowly and very distinctly: "I'm glad you've come. I want to + talk to you. I killed Carfax, you know." As he said the words he began + slowly to come back to himself from the Other World to this one. How + often, sleeping, waking, had he said those words! How often, aloud, in his + room, with his door locked, had he almost shouted them! + </p> + <p> + He was not now altogether sure whether Bunning were really there or no. + His spectacles were there, his boots were there, but was Bunning there? If + he were not there. . . . + </p> + <p> + But he <i>was</i> there. Olva's brain slowly cleared and, for the first + time for many weeks, he was entirely himself. It was the first moment of + peace that he had known since that hour in St. Martin's Chapel. + </p> + <p> + He was quiet, collected, perfectly calm. He went over to the window, + opened it, and rejoiced in the breeze. The room seemed suddenly empty. + Five minutes ago it had been crowded, breathless. There was now only + Bunning. + </p> + <p> + "It was so awfully hot with that enormous fire," he said. + </p> + <p> + Bunning's condition was peculiar. He sat, his large fat face white and + streaky, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands gripping the + sides of the armchair. His boots stuck up in the most absurd manner, like + interrogation marks. He watched Olva's face fearfully. At last he gasped— + </p> + <p> + "I say, Dune, you're ill. You are really—you're overdone. You ought + to see some one, you know. You ought really, you ought to go to bed." His + words came in jerks. + </p> + <p> + Olva crossed the room and stood looking down upon him. + </p> + <p> + "No, Bunning, I'm perfectly well. . . . There's nothing the matter with + me. My nerves have been a bit tried lately by this business, keeping it + all alone, and it's a great relief to me to have told you." + </p> + <p> + The fact forced itself upon Bunning's brain. At last in a husky whisper: + "You . . . killed . . . Carfax?" And then the favourite expression of such + weak souls as he: "Oh! my God! Oh! my God!" + </p> + <p> + "Now look here, don't get hysterical about it. You've got to take it + quietly as I do. You said the other day you'd do anything for me. . . . + Well, now you've got a chance of proving your devotion." + </p> + <p> + "My God! My God!" The boots feebly tapped the floor. + </p> + <p> + "I had to tell somebody. It was getting on my nerves. I suppose it gives + you a kind of horror of me. Don't mind saying so if it does." + </p> + <p> + Bunning, taking out a grimy handkerchief, wiped his forehead. He shook his + head without speaking. + </p> + <p> + Olva sat down in the chair opposite him and lit his pipe. + </p> + <p> + "I want to tell somebody all about it. You weren't really, I suppose, the + best person to tell. You're a hysterical sort of fellow and you're easily + frightened, but you happened to come in just when I was rather worked up + about it. At any rate you've got to face it now and you must pull yourself + together as well as you can. . . . Move away from the fire, if you're + hot." + </p> + <p> + Bunning shook his head. + </p> + <p> + Olva continued: "I'm going to try to put it quite plainly to you, the + Carfax part of it I mean. There are other things that have happened since + that I needn't bother you with, but I'd like you to understand why I did + it." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! my God!" said Bunning. He was trembling from head to foot and his fat + hands rattled on the woodwork of the chair and his feet rattled on the + floor. + </p> + <p> + "I met Carfax first at my private school—-a little, fat dirty boy he + was then, and fat and dirty he's been ever since. I hated him, but I was + always pleasant to him. He wasn't worth being angry with. He always did + rotten things. He knew more filthy things than the other boys, and he was + a bully—a beastly bully. I think he knew that I bated him, but we + were on perfectly good terms. I think he was always a little afraid of me, + but it's curious to remember that we never had a quarrel of any kind, + until the day when I killed him." + </p> + <p> + Olva paused and asked Bunning to have a drink. Bunning, gazing at him with + desperate eyes, shook his head. + </p> + <p> + "Then we went on to Rugby together. It's odd how Fate has apparently been + determined to hammer out our paths side by side. Carfax grew more and more + beastly. He always did the filthiest things and yet out of it all seemed + to the world at large a perfectly decent fellow. He was clever in that + way. I am not trying to defend myself. I'm making it perfectly + straightforward and just as it really was. He knew that I knew him better + than anybody, and as we went on at Rugby I think that his fear of me grew. + I didn't hate him so much for being Carfax, but rather as standing for all + sorts of rotten things. It didn't matter to me in the least whether he was + a beast or not, I'm a beast myself, but it did matter that he should smile + about it and have damp hands. When I touched his hand I always wanted to + hit him. + </p> + <p> + "I've got a very sudden temper, all my family are like that—calm + most of the time and then absolutely wild. I hated him more up here at + College than I'd hated him at school. He developed and still his + reputation was just the same, decent fellows like Craven followed him, + excused him; he had that cheery manner. . . . Hating him became a habit + with me. I hated everything that he did—his rolling walk down the + Court, his red colour, his football . . . and then he ruined that fellow + Thompson. That was a poor game, but no one seemed to think anything of it + . . . and indeed he and I seemed to be very good friends. He used to sneer + at me behind my back, I know, but I didn't mind that. Any one's at liberty + to sneer if they like. But he was really afraid of me . . . always. + </p> + <p> + "Then at last there was this girl that he set about destroying. He seduced + her, promised her marriage. I knew all about it, because she used to be + rather a friend of mine. I warned her, but she was absolutely infatuated—wouldn't + hear of anything that I had to say, thought it all jealousy. She wasn't + the kind of girl who could stand disgrace. . . . She came to him one day + and told him that she was going to have a baby. He laughed at her in the + regular old conventional way . . . and that very afternoon, after he had + seen her, he met me—there in Sannet Wood. + </p> + <p> + "He began to boast about it, told me jokingly about the way that he'd + 'shut her mouth,' as he called it . . . laughed . . . I hit him. I meant + to hit him hard, I hated him so; I think that I wanted to kill him. All + the accumulated years were in that blow, I suppose; at any rate, I caught + him on the chin and it broke his neck and he dropped . . . that's all." + </p> + <p> + Olva paused, finished his drink, and ended with— + </p> + <p> + "There it is—it's simple enough. I'm not in the least sorry I killed + him. I've no regrets; he was better out of the world than in it, and I've + probably saved a number of people from a great deal of misery. I thought + at first that I should be caught, but they aren't very sharp round here + and there was really nothing to connect me with it. But there were other + things—there's more in killing a man than the mere killing. I + haven't been able to stand the loneliness—-so I told you." + </p> + <p> + The last words brought him back to Bunning, a person whom he had almost + forgotten. A sudden pity for the man's distress made his voice tender. "I + say, Running, I oughtn't to have told you. It's been too much for you. But + if you knew the relief that it is to me. . . . Though, mind you, if it's + on your conscience, if it burdens you, you must 'out' with it. Don't have + any scruples about me. But it needn't burden you. <i>You</i> hadn't + any-thing to do with it. You were here and I told you. That's all. I've + shown you that I want you as a friend." + </p> + <p> + For answer the creature burst suddenly into tears, hiding his face in his + sleeve, as small boys hide their faces, and choking out desperately— + </p> + <p> + "Oh! my God! Oh! my God!" + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X — CRAVEN + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + That evening Olva was elected President of the Wolves. It was a ceremony + conducted with closed doors and much drinking of wine, by a committee of + four and the last reigning President who had the casting vote. The College + waited in suspense and at eleven o'clock it was understood that Dune had + been elected. + </p> + <p> + According to custom, on the day following in "Hall" Olva would be cheered + by the assembled undergraduates whilst the gods on the dais smiled gently + and murmured that "boys will be boys." + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the question that agitated the Sauline world was the way that + Cardillac would take it. "If it had been any one else but Dune . . ." but + it couldn't have been any one else. There was no other possible rival, and + "Cards," like the rest of the world, bowed to Dune's charm. The Dublin + match, to be played now in a fortnight's time, would settle the football + question. It was generally expected that they would try Dune in that match + and judge him finally then on his play. There was a good deal of betting + on the matter, and those who remembered his earlier games said that + nothing could ever make Dune a reliable player and that it was a reliable + player that was wanted. + </p> + <p> + When Olva came into "Hall" that evening he was conscious of two pairs of + eyes, Craven's and Bunning's. On either side of the high vaulted hall the + tables were ranged, and men, shouting, waving their glasses, lined the + benches. Olva's place was at the end farthest from the door and nearest + the High Table, and he had therefore the whole room to cross. He was + smiling a little, a faint colour in his cheeks. At his own end of the + table Craven was standing, silent, with his eyes gravely fixed upon Olva's + face. Half-way down the hall there was Bunning, and Olva could see, as he + passed up the room, that the man was trembling and was pressing his hands + down upon the table to hold his body still. + </p> + <p> + When Olva had sat down and the cheering had passed again into the cheerful + hum that was customary, the first voice that greeted him was Cardillac's. + </p> + <p> + "Congratulations, old man. I'm delighted." + </p> + <p> + There was no question of Cardillac's sincerity. Craven was sitting four + places lower down; he had turned the other way and was talking eagerly to + some man on his farther side—but the eyes that had met Olva's two + minutes before had been hostile. + </p> + <p> + Cardillac went on: "Come in to coffee afterwards, Dune; several men are + coming in." + </p> + <p> + Olva thanked him and said that he would. The world was waiting to see how + "Cards" would take it, and, beyond question, "Cards" was taking it very + well. Indeed an observer might have noticed that "Cards" was too absorbed + by the way that Dune was "taking it" to "take it" himself consciously at + all. Olva's aloof surveying of the world about him, as a man on a hill + surveys the town in the valley, made of "Cards'" last year and a half a + gaudy and noisy thing. He had thought that his attitude had been nicely + adjusted, but now he saw that there were still heights to be reached—perhaps + in this welcome that he was giving to Dune's success he might attain his + position. . . . Not, in any way, a bad fellow, this Cardillac—but + obsessed by a self-conscious conviction that the world was looking at him; + the world never looks for more than an instant at self-consciousness, but + it dearly loves self-forgetfulness, for that implies a compliment to + itself. + </p> + <p> + Afterwards, in Cardillac's handsome and over-careful rooms, there was an + attempt at depth. The set—Lawrence, Galleon, Craven and five or six + more—never thought about Life unless drink drove them to do so, and + drink drove them to-night. A long, thin man, Williamson by name, with a + half-Blue for racquets and a pensive manner, had a favourite formula on + these occasions: "But think of a rabbit now . . ." only conveying by the + remark that here was a proof of God's supreme, astounding carelessness. + "You shoot it, you know, without turning a hair (no joke, you rotter), and + it breeds millions a week . . . and—does it think about it, that's + what I want to know? Where's its soul? + </p> + <p> + "Hasn't got a soul. . . ." + </p> + <p> + "Well, what <i>is</i> the soul, anyway?" + </p> + <p> + There you are-the thing's properly started, and the more the set drinks + the vaguer it gets until finally it goes happily to bed and wakes with a + headache and a healthy opinion that "Religion and that sort of stuff is + rot" in the morning. That is precisely as far as intellect ever ventured + in Saul's. There may have been quaint obscure fellows who sported their + oaks every night and talked cleverly on ginger-beer, but they were not + admitted as part of the scheme of things. . . . Saulines, to quote + Lawrence, "are <i>not</i> clever." + </p> + <p> + They were not especially clever to-night, thought Olva, as he sat in the + shadow away from the light of the fire and watched them sitting back in + enormous armchairs, with their legs stretched out, blowing wreaths of + smoke into the air, drinking whiskies and sodas . . . no, not clever. + </p> + <p> + Craven, the shadows blacker than ever under his eyes, was on the opposite + side of the room from Olva. He sat with his head down and was silent. + </p> + <p> + "Think of a rabbit now," said Williamson. + </p> + <p> + "I suppose," said Galleon, who was not gifted, "that they're happy + enough." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but what do they <i>make</i> of it all?" + </p> + <p> + At this moment Craven suddenly burst in with "Where's Carfax?" + </p> + <p> + This question was felt by every one to be tactless. Elaborately, with + great care and some considerable effort, Carfax had been forgotten—forgotten, + it seemed, by every one save Craven. He had been forgotten because his + death did not belong to the Cambridge order of things, because it raised + unpleasant ideas, and made one morbid and neurotic. It had, in fact, + nothing in common with cold baths, marmalade, rugby football, and musical + comedy. + </p> + <p> + On the present occasion the remark was especially unpleasant because + Craven had made it in so odd a manner. During the last few weeks it had + been very generally noticed that Craven had not been himself—so + pleasant and healthy a fellow he had always been, but now this Carfax + business was too much for him. "Look out for young Craven" had been the + general warning, implied if not expressed. Persons who threatened to be + unusual were always marked down in Cambridge. + </p> + <p> + And now Craven <i>had</i> been unusual—"Where's Carfax?" . . . What + a dreadful thing to say and how tactless! The note, moreover, in Craven's + voice sounded a danger. There was something in the air as though the + fellow might, at any moment, burst into tears, fire a pistol into the air, + or jump out of the window! So unpleasant, and Carfax was much more real, + even now, than an abstract rabbit. + </p> + <p> + "Dear boy," said Cardillac, easily, "Carfax is dead. We all miss him—it + was a beastly, horrible affair, but there's no point in dwelling on + things; one only gets morbid, and morbidity isn't what we're here for." + </p> + <p> + "It's all very well," Craven was angrily muttering, "but it's scandalous + the way you forget a man. Here he was, amongst the whole lot of you, only + a month or so ago and he was a friend of every one's. And then some brute + kills him—he's done for—and you don't care a damn . . . it's + beastly—it makes one sick." + </p> + <p> + "Where do <i>you</i> think he is, Craven?" Olva asked quietly from his + shadowy corner. + </p> + <p> + Craven flung up his head. "Perhaps <i>you</i> can tell us," he cried. + There was such hostility in his voice that the whole room was startled. + Poor Craven! He really was very unwell. The sight of his tired eyes and + white cheeks, the shadow of his hand quivering on his knee—here were + signs that all was not as it should be. Gone, now, at any rate, any + possibility of a comfortable evening. Craven said no more but still sat + there with his head banging, his only movement the shaking of his hand. + </p> + <p> + Cardillac tried to bring ease back again, Williamson once more started his + rabbits, but now there was danger in that direction. Conversation fell, + heavily, helplessly, to the ground. Some man got up to go and some one + else followed him. It was the wrong moment for departure for they had + drunk enough to make it desirable to drink more, but to escape from that + white face of Craven's was the thing—out into the air. + </p> + <p> + At last Craven himself got up. "I must be off," he said heavily. + </p> + <p> + "So must I," Olva said, coming forward from his corner. Craven flung him a + frightened glance and then passed stumbling out of the door. + </p> + <p> + Olva caught him up at the bottom of the dark stairs. He put a hand on + Craven's trembling arm and held him there. + </p> + <p> + "I want to talk to you, Craven. Come up to my room." + </p> + <p> + Craven tried to wrench his arm away. "No, I'm tired. I want to go to bed." + </p> + <p> + "You haven't been near me for weeks. Why?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, nothing—let me go. I'll come up another time." + </p> + <p> + "No, I <i>must</i> talk to you—now. Come." Olva's voice was stern—his + face white and hard. + </p> + <p> + "No—I won't." + </p> + <p> + "You must. I won't keep you long. I have something to tell you." + </p> + <p> + Craven suddenly ceased to struggle. He gazed straight into Olva's eyes, + and the look that he gave him was the strangest thing—something of + terror, something of anger, a great wonder, and even—strangest of + all!—a struggling affection. + </p> + <p> + "I'll come," he said. + </p> + <p> + In Olva's room he stood, a disturbed figure facing the imperturbability of + the other man with restless eyes and hands that moved up and down against + his coat. Olva commanded the situation, with stern eyes he seemed to be + the accuser. . . . + </p> + <p> + "Sit down—fill a pipe." + </p> + <p> + "No, I won't sit—what do you want?" + </p> + <p> + "Please sit. It's so much easier for us both to talk. I can't say the + things that I want to when you're standing over me. Please sit down." + </p> + <p> + Craven sat down. + </p> + <p> + Olva faced him. "Now look here, Craven, a little time ago you came and + wished that we should see a good deal of one another. You came in here + often and you took me to see your people. You were charming . . . I was + delighted to be with you." + </p> + <p> + Olva paused—Craven said nothing. + </p> + <p> + "Then suddenly, for no reason that I can understand, this changed. Do you + remember that afternoon when you had tea with me here and I went to sleep? + It was after that—you were never the same after that. And it has + been growing worse. Now you avoid me altogether—you don't speak to + me if you can help it. I'm not a man of many friends and I don't wish to + lose one without knowing first what it is that I have done. Will you tell + me what it is?" + </p> + <p> + Craven made no answer. His eyes passed restlessly up and down the room as + though searching for some way of escape. He made little choking noises in + his throat. When Olva had had no answer to his question, he went gravely + on— + </p> + <p> + "But it isn't only your attitude to me that matters, although I <i>do</i> + want you to explain that. But I want you also to tell me what the damage + is. You're most awfully unwell. You're an utterly different man—changed + entirely during the last week or two, and we've all noticed it. But it + doesn't only worry us here; it worries your mother and sister too. You've + no right to keep it to yourself." + </p> + <p> + "There's nothing the matter." + </p> + <p> + "Of course there is. A man doesn't alter in a day for nothing, and I date + it all from that evening when you had tea with me, and I can't help + feeling that it's something that I can clear up. If it <i>is</i> anything + that I can do, if I can clear your bother up in any way, you have only to + tell me. And," he added slowly, "I think at least that you owe me an + explanation of your own personal avoidance of me. No man has any right to + drop a friend without giving his reasons. You know that, Craven." + </p> + <p> + Craven suddenly raised his weary eyes. "I never was a friend of yours. We + were acquaintances—that's all." + </p> + <p> + "You made me a friend of your mother and sister. I demand an explanation, + Craven." + </p> + <p> + "There is no explanation. I'm not well—out of condition." + </p> + <p> + "Why?" + </p> + <p> + "Why is a fellow ever out of condition? I've been working too hard, I + suppose. . . . But you said you'd got something to tell me. What have you + got to tell me?" + </p> + <p> + "Tell me first what is troubling you." + </p> + <p> + "No." + </p> + <p> + "You refuse?" + </p> + <p> + "Absolutely." + </p> + <p> + "Then I have nothing to tell you." + </p> + <p> + "Then you brought me in here on a lie. I should never have come if—-" + </p> + <p> + "Yes?" + </p> + <p> + "If I hadn't thought you had something to tell me." + </p> + <p> + "What should I have to tell you?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't know . . . nothing." + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, and then with a sudden surprising force, Craven almost + appealed— + </p> + <p> + "Dune, you <i>can</i> help me. You can make a great difference. I <i>am</i> + ill; it's quite true. I'm not myself a bit and I'm tortured by + imaginations—awful things. I suppose Carfax has got on my nerves and + I've had absurd fancies. You <i>can</i> help me if you'll just answer me + one question—only one. I don't want to know anything else, I'll + never ask you anything else—only this. Where were you on the + afternoon that Carfax was murdered?" + </p> + <p> + He brought it out at last, his hands gripping the sides of his chair, all + the agonized uncertainty of the last few weeks in his voice. Olva faced + him, standing above him, and looking down upon him. + </p> + <p> + "My dear Craven—what an odd question—why do you want to know?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, finding your matchbox like that—there in Sannet Wood—and + I know you must have lost it just about then because I remember your + looking for it here. I thought that perhaps you might have seen somebody, + had some kind of suspicion. . . ." + </p> + <p> + "Well, I <i>was</i>, as a matter of fact, there that very afternoon. I + walked through the wood with Bunker—rather late. I met no one during + the whole of the time." + </p> + <p> + "No one?" + </p> + <p> + "No one." + </p> + <p> + "You have no suspicion?" + </p> + <p> + "No suspicion." + </p> + <p> + The boy relapsed from his eagerness into his heavy dreary indifference. + His lips were working. Olva seemed to catch the words—"Why should it + be I? Why should it be I?" Olva came over to him and placed his hand on + his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + "Look here, old man, I don't know what's the matter with you, but it's + plain enough that you've got this Carfax business on your nerves—drop + it. It does no good—it's the worst thing in the world to brood + about. Carfax is dead—if I could help you to find his murderer I + would—but I can't." + </p> + <p> + Craven's whole body was trembling under Olva's hand. Olva moved back to + his chair. + </p> + <p> + "Craven, listen to me. You <i>must</i> listen to me." Then, speaking very + slowly he brought out-"I <i>have</i> a right to speak to you—a great + right. I wish to marry your sister." + </p> + <p> + Craven started up from his chair. + </p> + <p> + "No, no," he cried. "You! Never, so long as I can prevent it." + </p> + <p> + "You have no right to say that," Olva answered him sternly, "until you + have given me your reasons. I don't know that she cares a pin about me—I + don't suppose that she does. But she will. I'm going to do my very best to + marry her." + </p> + <p> + Craven broke away to the middle of the room. His body was shaking with + passion and he flung out his hand as though to ward off Olva from him. + </p> + <p> + "You to marry my sister! My God, I will prevent it—I will tell her—" + He caught himself up suddenly. + </p> + <p> + "What will you tell her?" + </p> + <p> + Then Craven collapsed. He stood there, rocking on his feet, his hands + covering his face. + </p> + <p> + "It's all too awful," he moaned. "It's all too awful." + </p> + <p> + For a wonderful moment Olva felt that he was about to tell Craven + everything. A flood of words rose to his lips—he seemed, for an + instant, to be rising with a great joyous freedom, as did Christian when + he had dropped his burden, to a new honesty, a high deliverance. + </p> + <p> + Then he remembered Margaret Craven. + </p> + <p> + "You take my advice, Craven, and get your nerves straight. They're in a + shocking condition." + </p> + <p> + Craven went to the door and turned. + </p> + <p> + "You can tell nothing?" + </p> + <p> + "Nothing." + </p> + <p> + "I will never rest until I know who murdered Carfax." + </p> + <p> + He closed the door behind him and was gone. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI — FIFTH OF NOVEMBER + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + That attempt to make Craven speak his mind was Olva's last plunge into the + open. He saw now, with a clarity that was like the sudden lifting of some + blind before a lighted window, that he had been beguiled, betrayed. He had + thought that his confession to Bunning would stay the pursuit. He saw now + that it was the Pursuer Himself who had instigated it. With that + confession the grey shadow had drawn nearer, had made one degree more + certain the ultimate capitulation. + </p> + <p> + For Bunning was surely the last person to be told—with every hour + that became clearer. There were now about four weeks before the end of + term. The Dublin match was to be on the first Tuesday of December, two + days before every one went down, and between the two dates—this 5th + of November and that 2nd of December—the position must be held. . . + . + </p> + <p> + The terror of the irresistible impulse now never left Olva. He had told + Bunning in a moment of uncontrol—what might he not do now at any + time? At one instant to be absolutely silent seemed the only resource, at + the next to rush out and take part in all the life about him. Were he + silent he was tortured by the silence, if he flung himself amongst his + fellow men every hour threatened self-betrayal. + </p> + <p> + What, moreover, was happening in the house in Rocket Road? Craven was only + waiting for certainty and at any moment some chance might give him what he + needed. What did Mrs. Craven know? + </p> + <p> + Margaret . . . Margaret . . . Margaret—-Olva took the thought of her + in his hand and held it like a sword, against the forces that were + crowding in upon him. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon of November 5 was thick with fog so that the shops were + lighted early and every room was dim and unreal, and a sulphurous smell + weighted the air. After "Hall" Olva came back to his room and found + Bunning, his white face peering out of the foggy mist like a dull moon + from clouds, waiting for him. All day there had hung about Olva heavy + depression. It had seemed so ugly and sinister a world—the fog had + been crowded with faces and terror, and the dreadful overpowering + impression of unreality that had been increasing with every day now took + from his companions all life and made of them grinning masks. He + remembered Margaret's cry, "It is like walking in a dream," and echoed it. + Surely it <i>was</i> a dream! He would wake one happy morning and find + that he had invited Craven and Carfax to breakfast, and he would hear + them, whilst he dressed, talking together in the outer room, and, later, + he would pass Bunning in the Court without knowing him. He would be + introduced one day to Margaret Craven and find the house in which she + lived a charming comfortable place, full of light and air, with a croquet + lawn at the back of it, and Mrs. Craven, a nice ordinary middle-aged + woman, stout possibly and fond of gossip. And instead of being President + of the Wolves and a person of importance in the College he would be once + again his old self, knowing nobody, scornful of the whole world and of the + next world as well. And this brought him up with a terrible awakening. No, + that old reality could never be real again, for that old reality meant a + world without God. God had come and had turned the world into a nightmare + . . . or was it only his rebellion against God that had so made it? But + the nightmare was there, the awful uncertainty of every word, of every + step, because with the slightest movement he might provoke the shadow to + new action, if anything so grave, so stern, so silent as that Pursuit + could be termed action, and . . . it was odd how certainly he knew it . . + . so kind. Bunning's face brought him to the sudden necessity of treating + the nightmare as reality, for the moment at any rate. The staring + spectacles piteously appealed to him— + </p> + <p> + "I can't stand it—I can't stand it." + </p> + <p> + "Hush!" Olva held his hand, and out of the fog, below in the Court, a + voice was calling—"Craven! Craven! Buck up, you old ass!" + </p> + <p> + "They're going to light bonfires and things," Bunning quavered, and then, + with a hand that had always before seemed soft and flabby but that was now + hard and burning, he caught Olva's wrist. "I had to see you—I've + been three days now—waiting—all the time for them to come and + arrest you. Oh! I've imagined everything—everything—and the + fog makes it worse. . . . Oh! my God! I can't stand it." + </p> + <p> + The man was on the edge of hysteria. His senseless giggle threatened that + in another instant it would be beyond all control. There was no time to be + lost. Olva took him by the shoulders, held him firmly and looked straight + into the weak, quivering eyes that were behind the glasses like fish in a + tank. + </p> + <p> + "Look here, Bunning. Pull yourself together. You <i>must</i>—you <i>must</i>. + Do you understand? If you've never done it before you must do it now. + Remember that you wanted to help me. Well, now you can do it—but + remember that if you give way so that people notice you, then the show's + up. They'll be asking questions—they'll watch you—and you'll + have done for me. Otherwise there's no risk whatever—no risk + whatever. Just remember that—it's as though I'd never done anything; + everything's going on in its usual way; life will always be just the same + . . . if you'll keep hold of yourself—do you understand? Do you hear + me?" + </p> + <p> + Bunning's quavering voice answered him, "I'll try." + </p> + <p> + "Well, look here. Think of it quite calmly, naturally. You're taking it + like a story that you'd read in a magazine or a play you'd seen at a + theatre—melodrama with all the lights on and every one screaming. + Well, it can be like that if you want it. Every one thinks of murder that + way and you can go shrieking to the Dean and have the rope round my neck + in a minute. But I want you to think of it as the most ordinary thing in + the world. Remember no one knows but yourself, and they won't know either + if you behave in a natural sort of way." Then suddenly his voice sank to a + growl and he caught the man's hands in his and held the whole quivering + body in his control—"Quiet!" he muttered, "Quiet!" + </p> + <p> + Bunning had begun to laugh—quite helplessly, almost noiselessly—only + his fat cheeks were quivering and his mouth foolishly, weakly smiling: his + eyes seemed to be disconnected from his body and to be protesting against + it. They looked out like a prisoner from behind barred windows. The body + began to shake from head to foot-ripples of noiseless laughter shook his + fat limbs, then suddenly he began . . . peal upon peal. . . the tears came + rolling down, the mouth was loosely trembling, and still only the eyes, in + a kind of sad, stupid wonder, protested. + </p> + <p> + Olva seized his throat-"Stop it, you damned fool!" . . . He looked + straight into the eyes—Bunning ceased as suddenly as he had begun. + The horrible, helpless noise fell with a giggle into silence; he collapsed + into a chair and hid his face in his hands. + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause. Olva gazed at the bending figure, summoning all + his will power to hold the shaking thing in control. He waited. Then, + softly, he began again. "Bunning, I did you a great wrong when I told you—you're + not up to it." + </p> + <p> + From behind the hands there came a muffled voice—"I <i>am</i> up to + it." + </p> + <p> + "This sort of thing makes it impossible." + </p> + <p> + "It shall never happen again." Bunning lifted his tear-stained face. "It's + been coming for days. I've been so dreadfully frightened. But now—that + I've been with you—it's better, much better. If only—" and his + voice caught—"if only—no one suspects." + </p> + <p> + Olva gravely answered, "No one suspects." + </p> + <p> + "If I thought that any one—that there was any chance—that any + one had an idea. . . ." + </p> + <p> + Craven's voice was echoing in Olva's ears. He answered again— + </p> + <p> + "No one has the slightest suspicion." + </p> + <p> + Bunning got up heavily from the chair—"I shall be better now. It's + been so awful having a secret. I never could keep one. I always used to do + wrong things at home and then tell them and then get punished. But I will + try. But if I thought that they guessed—" There was a rap on the + door and Bunning gasped, stepped back against the wall, his face white, + his knees trembling. + </p> + <p> + "Don't be such a fool," Olva said fiercely. "If you're like that every + time any one knocks you may as well chuck it at once. Look sensible, man. + Pull yourself together." + </p> + <p> + Lawrence entered, bringing log with him from the stairs. His big, + thick-set body was so reassuring, so healthy in its sturdiness, so strange + a contrast to the trembling figure against the wall that Olva felt an + immense relief. + </p> + <p> + "You know Bunning, Lawrence?" + </p> + <p> + "How do?" + </p> + <p> + Lawrence gripped Bunning's fingers, nodded to Bunning's stumbling words + and smiled genially. + </p> + <p> + Bunning got to the door, blinked upon them both from behind his glasses + and was gone—muttering something about "work . . . letters to + write." + </p> + <p> + "Rum feller," said Lawrence, and dismissed him with a chuckle. "Shouldn't + ever have thought him your style, Dune . . . but you're a clever feller + and clever fellers always see more in stupid fellers than ordinary fellers + do . . . come out and see the rag." + </p> + <p> + "Rag! What rag?" + </p> + <p> + "It's November 5th." + </p> + <p> + So it was. In the air already perhaps there were those mysterious signs + and portents that heralded riot—nothing, as yet, for the casual + observer to notice, nothing but a few undergraduates arm-in-arm pacing the + sleepy streets—a policeman here, a policeman there. Every now and + again clocks strike the quarters, and in many common-rooms heads are + nodding over ancient Port and argument of the gentlest kind is being + tossed to and fro. But, nevertheless, we remember other Fifths of + November. There was that occasion in '98, that other more distant time in + '93. . . . There was that furious battle in the Market Place when the Town + Hall was nearly set on fire and a policeman had his arm broken. + </p> + <p> + These are historic occasions; on the other hand the fateful date has + passed, often enough, without the merest flinging of a squib or friendly + appropriation of the genial policeman's helmet. + </p> + <p> + No one can say, no one knows, whether there will be riot to-night or no. + Most of the young gentlemen now parading the K.P. and Petty Cury would + undoubtedly prefer that there should be a riot. For one thing there has + been no riot during the last five or six years—no one "up" just now + has had any experience of such a thing, and it would be beyond question + delightful to taste the excitement of it. But, on the other hand, there is + all the difficulty of getting under way. One cannot possibly enjoy the + occasion until one has reached that delightful point when one has lost all + sense of risk, when recklessly we pile the bonfire, snap our fingers in + the nose of poor Mr. Gregg who is terrific enough when he marches solemnly + into Chapel but is nothing at all when he is screaming with shrill anger + amongst the lights and fury of the blazing common. + </p> + <p> + Will this wonderful moment when discipline, respect for authority, + thoughts of home, terrors of being sent down, all these bogies, are flung + derisively to the winds arrive to-night? It has struck nine, and to Olva + and Lawrence, walking solemnly through the market-place, it all seems + quiet enough. + </p> + <p> + But behold how the gods work their will! It so happens that Giles of St + Martin's has occasion, on this very day, to celebrate his twenty-first + birthday. It has been done as a twenty-first birthday should be done, and + by nine o'clock the company, twenty in number, have decided that "it was + the ruddiest of ruddy old worlds"—that—"let's have some + moretodrink ol' man—it was Fifth o' November—and that a + ruddyoldbonfire would be—a—ruddyol'-joke—-" + </p> + <p> + Now, at half-past nine, the company of twenty march singing down the K.P. + and gather unto themselves others—a murmur is spreading through the + byways. "Bonfire on the Common." "Bonfire on the Common." The streets + begin to be black with undergraduates. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + Olva was conscious as he passed with Lawrence through the now crowded + streets that Bunning's hysteria had had an effect upon his nerves. He + could not define it more directly than by saying that the Shadow that had, + during these many weeks, appeared to be pursuing him, at a distance, now + seemed to be actually with him. It was as though three of them, and not + two, were walking there side by side. It was as though he were himself + whispering in his own ear some advice of urgent pleading that he was + himself rejecting . . . he was even weighted with the sense of some + enlarged growth, of having in fact to carry more, physically as well as + spiritually, than he had ever carried before. Now it quite definitely and + audibly pleaded— + </p> + <p> + "Submit—submit—submit. . . . See the tangle that you are + getting yourself into. See the trouble that you are getting others into. + See the tangle and muddle that you are making of it all. . . . Submit. . . + . Give in. . . . You're beaten." + </p> + <p> + But he was not beaten. Neither the love of Margaret, nor the suspicions of + Rupert, nor the hysteria of Bunning had as yet defeated him . . . and even + as he resisted it was as though he were fighting himself. + </p> + <p> + Sidney Street was now quite black with thronging undergraduates moving + towards the Common. There was very little noise in it all; every now and + again some voice would call aloud to some other voice and would be + answered back; a murmur like the swelling of some stream, unlike, in its + uniformity and curious evenness of note, any human conversation, seemed to + cling to the old grey walls. All of it at present orderly enough but with + sinister omen in its very quiet. + </p> + <p> + Olva felt an increasing excitement as he moved. It was an excitement that + had some basis in the stir that was about him, in the murmur like bees of + the crowd, in the soft stirring of grey branches above the walls of the + street against the night sky, in the golden lights that, set in dim + towers, shone high up above their heads. In all these things there was a + mysterious tremor that beat, with the rhythm of a pulse, from the town's + very heart—but there was more than that in his excitement. There was + working in him a conviction that he was now, even now, reaching the very + climax of his adventure. Very certainly, very surely, the moment was + thawing near, and even in the instant when he had, that very evening, left + his rooms, he had stepped, he instinctively knew, out of one stage into + another. + </p> + <p> + "Where are we going?" he asked Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + "Common. There's goin' to be an old fire. Hope there's a row—don't + mind who I hit." + </p> + <p> + The side streets that led to the Common made progress more difficult, and, + with the increased difficulty, came also a more riotous spirit. Some one + started "The Two Obadiahs," and it was lustily sung with a good deal of + repetition; several people had wooden rattles, intended to encourage + College boats during the races, but very useful just now. There were, at + the point where the street plunges into the Common, some wooden + turnstiles, and these of course were immensely in the way and men were + flung about and there was a good deal of coarse pleasantry, and one mild + freshman, who had been caught into the crowd by accident, was thrown on to + the ground and very nearly trodden to death. + </p> + <p> + The sight of the vast and mysterious Common put every one into the best of + spirits. There was room here to do anything, and it was also dark enough + and wide enough to escape if escape were advisable. Moreover the space of + it seemed so limitless that it negatived any one's responsibility. A + sudden delightful activity swept over the world, and it was immediately + every one's business to get wood from anywhere at all and drag it into the + middle of the Common. As they moved through the turnstiles Olva fancied + that he caught sight of Craven. + </p> + <p> + On the Common's edge, with bright little lights in their windows, were + perched a number of tiny houses with strips of garden in front of them. + These little eyes watched, apprehensively no doubt, the shadowy mass that + hovered under the night sky. They did not like this kind of thing, these + little houses—they remembered five or six years ago when their + cabbages had been trampled upon, their palings torn down, even + hand-to-hand contests in the passages and one roof on fire. Where were the + police? The little eyes watched anxiously. There was no sign of the + police. . . . + </p> + <p> + Olva smiled at himself for the excitement that he was feeling. He was + standing at present with Lawrence on the edge of the Common, watching, but + he was feeling irresistibly drawn towards the dark pile of wood that was + rising slowly towards the sky. + </p> + <p> + "As though one were ten years old"—and yet there was Lawrence + murmuring, "I'd awfully like to hit somebody." And that, after all, was + what it all came to. Perhaps Olva, if there were really to be some + "scraps," would be able to work off some of his apprehension, of his + breathlessness. Oh! for one wild ten minutes when scruples were flung to + the winds, when there was at last in front of one an enemy whom one could + touch, whom one could fling, physically, brutally, down before one! + </p> + <p> + "The worst of it is," Lawrence was saying, "there are these town cads—they'll + be in the back somewhere shoutin' ''It 'im, 'Varsity,' or somethin' and + then runnin' for their lives if they see a Robert comin' . . . it's rotten + bein', mixed up with such muck . . . anyhow I'm goin' to have a dash at it——" + and he had suddenly plunged forward into space. + </p> + <p> + Olva was alone. A breeze blew across the Common, the stars twinkled and + jumped as though they were suffering from a nervous attack, and with every + moment restraint was flung a farther distance, more voices called aloud + and shouted, more men poured out of the little side streets. It had the + elements of a great mystery. It was as though Mother Earth had, with a + heave of her breast, tossed these shadowy forms into the air and was + herself stirring with the emotion of their movement. + </p> + <p> + There was an instant's breathless silence; to the roar of a shouting + multitude a bright hard flame shot like steel into the air—the + bonfire was alight. + </p> + <p> + Now with every moment it mounted higher. Black pigmy figures were now + dancing round it and across the Common other figures were always passing, + dragging wood with them. The row of palings towards the river had gone and + soon those little cottages that lined the grass must suffer. Surely now + the whole of the University was gathered there! The crowd was close now, + dense—men shoved past one another crying out excited cries, waving + their arms with strange meaningless gestures. They were arriving rapidly + at that condition when they had neither names nor addresses but merely + impulses. + </p> + <p> + Most dangerous element of all threatened that ring of loafers on the + outskirts—loafers from the town. Here in this "mob of excited boys" + was opportunity for them of getting something back on that authority that + had so often treated them with ignominy. . . . Their duty to shout + approval, to insult at a distance, to run for their lives were their dirty + bodies in any danger . . . but always to fan the flame—-"Good old—Varsity—Let + them have it, the dirty—" "Pull their shirts off—" + </p> + <p> + Screams, laughter, shouting, wild dancing—let the Dons come now and + see what they can make of it! + </p> + <p> + "Bulldogs!" sounded a voice in Olva's ear, and turning round he beheld a + breathless, dishevelled Bunning. "I've been pulling wood off the palings. + Ha! hoch! he! (such noises to recover his breath). <i>Such</i> a rag!"—and + then more apprehensively, "Bulldogs! There they are, with Metcher!" They + stood, two big men in top-hats, plainly to be seen behind a Don in cap and + gown, upon a little hill to the right of the bonfire. The flames lit their + figures. Metcher, the Don, was reading something from a paper, and, round + the hill, derisively dancing, were many undergraduates. Apparently the + Proctor found the situation too difficult for him and presently he + disappeared. Bunning watched him, apprehension and a sense of order + struggling' with a desire for adventure. "They've gone to fetch the + police. There'll be an awful row." + </p> + <p> + There probably would be because that moment had at last been reached when + authority was flung absolutely to the winds of heaven. The world seemed, + in a moment, to have gone mad. Take Bunning, his cheeks flushed, his body + shaking, his eyes flaming, for an example. Olva, dark, motionless in his + shadow, watched it all and waited for his moment. He knew that it was + coming. Grimly he addressed the Shadow, now close to his very heart. "I + know you. You are urging me on. This night is your business. . . . But I + am fighting you still! I am fighting you still!" + </p> + <p> + The moment came. Bunning, clutching on to Olva's sleeve, whispered, "The + police! Even at that crisis of intensest excitement he could be seen, + nervously, pushing his spectacles up his nose. A surging crowd of men, and + Olva again fancied that he caught sight of Craven, swept towards the row + of timid twinkling lights with their neat little gardens like trembling + protests laid out before them. More wood! more wood! to appease that great + flaming monster that shot tongues of fire now to the very heavens. More + wood! more wood!" + </p> + <p> + "Look out, the police!" + </p> + <p> + They came, with their truncheons, in a line down the Common. Olva was + flung into the heart of a heaving mass of legs and arms. He caught a + glimpse of Bunning behind and he thought that he saw Craven a little to + his right. He did not know—he did not care. His blood was up at + last. He was shouting he knew not what, he was hitting out with his fists. + Men's voices about him—"Let go, you beast." "My God, I'll finish + you." "There goes a bobby." "Stamp on him!" + </p> + <p> + A disgraceful scene. The policemen were hopelessly outnumbered. The crowd + broke on to the line of orderly little gardens, water was poured from + windows, the palings were flung to the ground—glass broken—screams + of women somewhere in the distance. + </p> + <p> + But even now Olva knew that his moment had not come. Then some one shouted + in his ear—"Town cads! They're murdering a bobby!" He was caught + with several other men (of their number was Bunning) off the Common up a + side street. + </p> + <p> + A blazing lamp showed him an angry, shouting, jeering crowd; figures + closed round something on the ground. Four men had joined arms with him, + and now the five of them, shouting "'Varsity!" hitting right and left, + rushed into the circle. The circle broke and Olva saw lying his length on + the ground, half-stunned, clothed only in a torn shirt of bright blue, a + stout heavy figure—once obviously, from the clothes flung to one + side, a policeman, now with his large red face in a muddy puddle, his fat + naked legs bent beneath him, his fingers clutching dirt, nothing very + human at all. Town cads of the worst! Some brute now was raising his foot + and kicking the bare flesh! + </p> + <p> + Instantly the world was on flame for Olva. Now again, as once in Sannet + Wood, he must hit and hit with all his soul. He broke, like a madman, into + the heart of the crowd, sending it flying. There were cries and screams. + </p> + <p> + He was conscious of three faces. There was Bunning there, white, staring. + There was Craven, with his back to a house-door, staring also—and + directly before him was a purple face with muddy hair fringing it and + little beady eyes. The face of the brute who had been kicking! He must + hit. He struck and his fist broke the flesh! He was exultant . . . at last + he had, after these weeks of intangibility, found something solid. The + face broke away from him. The circle scattered back and the fat, naked + body was lying in the mud alone. There was a sudden silence. Olva, + conscious of a great power surging through his body, raised his hand + again. + </p> + <p> + A voice, shrill, terror in it, screamed, "Look out, man, he'll kill you!" + </p> + <p> + He turned and saw under the lamplight Craven, his eyes blazing, his finger + pointed. He was suddenly cold from head to foot. The voice came, it had + seemed, from heaven. Craven's eyes were alive now with certainty. Then + there was another cry from somewhere of "The police!" and the crowd had melted. + In the little street now there were only the body of the policeman and a + handful of undergraduates. + </p> + <p> + They raised the man, poured water over him, found some of his clothes, and + two men led him, his head lolling, down the street. + </p> + <p> + There was a noisy world somewhere in the distance, but here there was + silence. Olva crept slowly out of his exultation and found himself in the + cold windy street with Bunning for his only companion. + </p> + <p> + Bunning—now a torn, dirty, bleeding Bunning—gripped his arm. + </p> + <p> + "Did you hear?" + </p> + <p> + "Hear what?" + </p> + <p> + "Craven—when you were fighting there—Craven was watching . . . + I saw it all . . . Craven suspects." + </p> + <p> + Olva met the frightened eyes—"He does not suspect." + </p> + <p> + "Didn't you hear? He called out to the cad you were going for. . . ." + Then, in a kind of whimper, dismal enough in the dreary little street—"He'll + find out—Craven—I know he will. . . . Oh! my God! what <i>shall</i> + I do!" + </p> + <p> + Some one had broken the glass of the street lamp and the gas flared above + them, noisily. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII — LOVE TO THE "VALSE TRISTE" + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + It was all, when one looked back upon it, the rankest melodrama. The + darkness, the flaming lamp, Craven's voice and eyes, Bunning . . . it had + all arranged itself as though it bad been worked by a master dramatist. At + any rate there they now were, the three of them—Olva, Bunning, + Craven—placed in a situation that could not possibly stay as it was. + In which direction was it going to develop? Bunning had no control at all, + it would be he who would supply the next move . . . meanwhile in the back + of Olva's mind there was that banging sense of urgency, no time to be + lost. He must see Margaret and speak before Rupert spoke to her. Perhaps, + even now, Craven was not certain. If he only knew of how much Craven was + sure! Did he feel sure enough to speak to Margaret? + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the first and most obvious thing was that Bunning was in a state + of terror that threatened instant exposure. The man was evidently + realizing that now, for the first time, he had a big thing with which he + must grapple. He must grapple with his devotion to Olva, with his terror + of Craven, but, most of all, with his terror of himself. That last was + obviously the thing that tortured him, for, having now been given by the + High Gods an opportunity of great service, so miserable a creature did he + consider himself that he would not for an instant trust his control. He + was trying, Olva saw, with an effort that in its intensity was pathetic to + prove himself worthy of the chance that had been offered him, as though it + were the one sole opportunity that he would ever be given, but to appear + to the world something that he was not was an art that Bunning and his + kind could never acquire—that is their tragedy. It was the fate of + Bunning that his boots and spectacles should always negative any attempt + that he might make at a striking personality. + </p> + <p> + On the night after the "Rag" he sat in Olva's room and made a supreme + effort at control. + </p> + <p> + "If you can only hold on," Olva told him, "to the end of term. It's only a + week or two now. Just stick it until then; you won't be bothered with me + after that." + </p> + <p> + "You're going away?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't know—it depends." + </p> + <p> + "I don't know what I should do if you went. To have to stand that awful + secret all alone . . . only me knowing. Oh! I couldn't! I couldn't! and + now that Craven—" + </p> + <p> + "Craven knows nothing. He doesn't even suspect anything. See here, + Bunning"—Olva crossed over to him and put his hand on his shoulder. + "Can't you understand that your behaviour makes me wish that I hadn't told + you, whereas if you care as you say you do you ought to want to show me + how you can carry it, to prove to me that I was right to tell you—-" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I know. But Craven—-" + </p> + <p> + "Craven knows nothing." + </p> + <p> + "But he does." Bunning's voice became shrill and his fat hand shook on + Olva's arm. "There's something I haven't told you. This morning in Outer + Court he stopped me." + </p> + <p> + "Craven stopped you?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes. There was no one about. I was going along to my rooms and he met me + and he said: 'Hullo, Bunning.'" + </p> + <p> + "Well?" + </p> + <p> + "I'd been thinking of it—of his knowing, I mean—all night, so + I was dreadfully startled, dreadfully startled. I'm afraid I showed it." + </p> + <p> + "Get on. What did he say?" + </p> + <p> + "He said: 'Hullo, Bunning!'" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, you've told me that. What else?" + </p> + <p> + "I said 'Hullo!' I was dreadfully startled. I don't think he'd ever spoken + to me before. And then he looked so strange—wild, as though he + hadn't slept, and white, and his eyes moved all the time. I'm afraid he + saw that I was startled." + </p> + <p> + "Do get on. What else did he ask you?" + </p> + <p> + "He asked me whether I'd enjoyed last night. He said: 'You were with Dune, + weren't you?' He cried, as though he wasn't speaking to me at all: 'That's + an odd sort of friend for you to have.' I ought to have been angry I + suppose, but I was shaking all over . . . yes . . . well . . . then he + said: 'I thought you were in with all those pi men,' and I just couldn't + say anything at all—I was shaking so. He must have thought I looked + very odd." + </p> + <p> + "I'm sure he did," said Olva drily. "Well it won't be many days before <i>you</i> + give the show away—<i>that's</i> certain." + </p> + <p> + What could have made him tell the fellow? What madness? What—-? + </p> + <p> + But Bunning caught on to his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + "No, no, you mustn't say that, Dune, please, you mustn't. I'm going to do + my best, I am really. But his coming suddenly like that, just when I'd + been thinking. . . . But it's awful. I told you if any one suspected it + would make it so hard—-" + </p> + <p> + "Look here, Bunning, perhaps it will help you if you know the way that I'm + feeling about it. I'll try and explain. All these days there's something + in me that's urging me to go out and confess." + </p> + <p> + "Conscience," said Bunning solemnly. + </p> + <p> + "No, it isn't conscience at all. It's something quite different, because + the thing that's urging me isn't urging me because I've done something I'm + ashamed of, it's urging me because I'm in a false position. There's that + on the one side, and, on the other, I'm in love with Rupert Craven's + sister." + </p> + <p> + Bunning gave a little cry. + </p> + <p> + "Yes. That complicates things, doesn't it? Now you see why Rupert Craven + is the last person who must know anything about it; it's because he loves + his sister so much and suspects, I think, that I care for her, that he's + going to find out the truth." + </p> + <p> + "Does she care for you?" Bunning brought out huskily. + </p> + <p> + "I don't know. That's what I've got to find out." + </p> + <p> + "Because it all depends on that. If she cares enough it won't matter what + you've done, and if she doesn't care enough it won't matter her knowing + because you oughtn't to marry her. Oh," and Bunning's eyes as they gazed + at Olva were those, once more, of a devoted dog: "she's lucky." Then he + repeated, as though to himself, in his odd husky whisper: "Anything that I + can do . . . anything that I can do . . ." + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + On the next evening, about five o'clock, Olva went to the house in Rocket + Road. He went through a world that, in its frosty stillness, held beauty + in its hands like a china cup, so fragile in its colours, so gentle in its + outline, with a moon, round and of a creamy white, with a sky faintly red, + and stiff trees, black and sharp. + </p> + <p> + Cambridge came to Olva then as a very lovely thing. The Cambridge life was + a lovely thing with its kindness, its simplicity, its optimism. He was + penetrated too with a great sadness because he knew that life of that kind + was gone, once and for ever, from him; whatever came to him now it could + never again be that peace; the long houses flung black shadows across the + white road and God kept him company. . . . + </p> + <p> + Miss Margaret Craven had not yet come in, but would Mr. Dune, perhaps, go + up and see Mrs. Craven? The old woman's teeth chattered in the cold little + hall. "We are dead, all of us dead here," the skins on the walls seemed to + say; "and you'll be dead soon . . . oh! yes, you will." + </p> + <p> + Olva went up to Mrs. Craven. The windows of her room were tightly closed + and a great fire was blazing; before this she lay stretched out on a sofa + of faded green—her black dress, her motionless white hands, her pale + face, her moving eyes. + </p> + <p> + She had beside her to-day a little plate of dry biscuits, and, now and + again, her hand would move across her black dress and break one of these + with a sharp sound, and then her hand would fall back again. + </p> + <p> + "I am very glad to see you. Draw your chair to the fire. It is a chill + day, but fine, I believe." + </p> + <p> + She regarded him gravely. + </p> + <p> + "It is not much of life that I can watch from this room, Mr. Dune. It is + good of you to come and see me . . . there must be many other things for + you to do." + </p> + <p> + He came at once to the point. + </p> + <p> + "I want your permission to ask your daughter to marry me, Mrs. Craven." + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence between them. He seemed, in his inner + consciousness, to be carrying on a dialogue. + </p> + <p> + "You see," he said to the Shadow, "I have forestalled you. I shall ask + Margaret Craven this evening to marry me. You cannot prevent that . . . + you <i>cannot</i>." + </p> + <p> + And a voice answered: "All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me." + </p> + <p> + "You have known us a very short time, Mr. Dune." Mrs. Craven's voice came + to him from a great distance. + </p> + <p> + He felt as though he were speaking to two persons. "Time has nothing to do + with falling in love, Mrs. Craven." + </p> + <p> + He saw to his intense amazement that she was greatly moved. She, who had + always seemed to him a mask, now was suddenly revealed as suffering, + tortured, intensely human. Her thin white hands were pressed together. + </p> + <p> + "I am a lonely, unhappy woman, Mr. Dune. Margaret is now all that is left + to me. Everything has been taken from me. Rupert—" Her voice was + lost; very slowly tears rolled down her cheeks. She began again + desperately. "Margaret is all that I have got. If I were left alone it + would be too much for me. I could not endure the silence." + </p> + <p> + It was the more moving in that it followed such stern reserve. His own + isolation, the curious sense that he had that they were, both of them, + needing protection against the same power (it seemed to him that if he + raised his eyes he would see, on the opposite wall, the shadow of that + third Presence); this filled him with the tenderest pity, so that suddenly + he bent down and kissed her hand. + </p> + <p> + She caught his with a fierce convulsive movement, and so they sat in + silence whilst he felt the pulse of her hand beat through his body, and + once a tear rolled from her cheek on to his wrist. + </p> + <p> + "You understand . . ." she said at last. "You understand. I have always + seen that you know. . ." Then she whispered, "How did you know?" + </p> + <p> + "Know?" He was bewildered, but before she could speak again the door + opened and Margaret Craven came in. + </p> + <p> + She moved with that restrained emotion that he had seen in her when he had + first met her. She was some great force held in check, some fire that + blazed but must be hidden from the world, and as she bent over her mother + and kissed her the embrace had in it something of passionate protest; both + women seemed to assert in it their right to quite another sort of life. + </p> + <p> + He saw that his moment with Mrs. Craven had passed. That fire, that + humanity had gone from her and she lay back now on her sofa with the faint + waxen lids closed upon her eyes, her hands thinly folded, almost a dead + woman. + </p> + <p> + Margaret kissed her again—now softly and gently, and Olva went with + her from the room. + </p> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> + <p> + He was prepared to find that Rupert had told her everything. He thought + that he saw in the gravity and sadness of her manner, and also in the + silence that she seemed deliberately at first to place between them, that + she was waiting for the right moment to break it to him. He felt that she + would ask him gravely and with great kindness, but that, in the answer + that he would give her, it must be all over . . . the end. The pursuit + would be concluded. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly in the way that she looked at him he knew that she had been + told nothing. + </p> + <p> + "I'm afraid that mother is very unwell. I'm afraid that you must have + found her so." + </p> + <p> + "If she could get away—-" he began. + </p> + <p> + "Ah! if we could all get away! If only we could! But we have talked of + that before. It is quite impossible. And, even if we could (and how glad I + should be!), I do not know that it would help mother. It is Rupert that is + breaking her heart!" + </p> + <p> + "Rupert!" + </p> + <p> + For answer to his exclamation she cried to him with all the pent-up + suffering and loneliness of the last weeks in her voice— + </p> + <p> + "Ah, Mr. Dune, help me! I shall go mad if something doesn't happen; every + day it is worse and I can't grapple with it. I'm not up to it. If only + they'd speak out! but it's this silence!" She seemed to pull herself + together and went on more quietly: "You know that Rupert and I have been + everything to one another all our lives. We have never had a secret of any + kind. Until this last month Rupert was the most open, dearest boy in the + world. His tenderness with my mother was a most wonderful thing, and to + me!—I cannot tell you what he was to me. I suppose, for the very + reason that we were so much to one another, we did not make any other very + close friends. I had girls in Dresden, of course, and there were men at + school and college for whom he cared, but I think there can have been few + brothers and sisters who were so entirely together in every way. A month + ago that all ceased." + </p> + <p> + She flung her head back with a sharp defiant movement as though the memory + of it hurt her. + </p> + <p> + "I've told you this before. I talked to you about it when you were here + last. But since then he has become much worse and I am afraid that + anything may happen. I have no one to go to. It is killing my mother, and + then—you were a friend of his." + </p> + <p> + "I hope that I am now." + </p> + <p> + "That is the horrible part of it. But it seems now that all this + agitation, this trouble, is directed against you." + </p> + <p> + "Against me" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, the other evening he spoke about you—here—furiously. He + said you must never come here again, that I must never speak to you again. + He said that you had done dreadful things. And then when I asked him he + could not tell me anything. He seemed—and you must look on it in + that light, Mr. Dune—as though he were not in the least responsible + for what he said. I'm afraid he is very, very ill. He is dreadfully + unhappy, and yet he can explain nothing. I too have been very unhappy, and + mother, because we love him." + </p> + <p> + "If he wishes that I should not come here again—-" Olva began. + </p> + <p> + "But he is not responsible. He really does not know what he is doing. He + never had the smallest trouble that he did not confide it to me, and now—-" + </p> + <p> + "I have noticed, of course," Olva said "that lately his manner to me has + been strange. I would have helped him if he would let me, but he will not. + He will have nothing to say to me . . . I too have been very sorry about + it. I have been sorry because I am fond of Rupert, but also—there is + another, stronger reason—because I love you, Margaret." + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he got up and stood by her chair. He saw her take in his last + words, at first with a wondering gravity, then with a sudden splendour so + that light flooded her face; her arms made a little helpless gesture, and + she caught his hand. + </p> + <p> + He drew her up to him out of her chair; then, with a fierce passionate + movement, they held one another and clung together as though in a + desperate wild protest against the world. + </p> + <p> + "You can't touch me now—I've got her," he seemed to fling at the + blank face of the old mirror. + </p> + <p> + It was his act of defiance, but through his exultation he caught the + whisper—it might again have been conveyed to him through the shrill + shivering notes of the "Valse Triste"—"Tell her—tell her—now. + Trust her. Dear son, trust Me . . . it must be so in the end." + </p> + <p> + "Now," he heard her say, "I can stand it all." + </p> + <p> + "When you came into this room weeks ago," she went on, "I loved you; from + the very first instant. Now I do not mind what any one can do." + </p> + <p> + "I too loved you from the first instant." + </p> + <p> + "You were so grave. I tried at first not to think of you as a person at + all because I thought that it was safer, and then gradually, although I + fought against you, I could not keep you out. You drove your way in. You + understood so wonderfully the things that I wanted you to understand. Then + Rupert and mother drove me to want you more and more. I thought that you + liked me, but I didn't know. . . ." Then with a little shiver she clung to + him, pressing close to him. "Oh! hold me, hold me safe." + </p> + <p> + The room was now gathering to itself that dusk that gave it its strangest + air. The fire had fallen low and only shone now in the recesses of the + high fireplace with a dull glimmer. Amongst the shadows it seemed that the + Presence was gravely waiting. As Olva held Margaret in his arms he felt + that he was fighting to keep her. + </p> + <p> + In the dark hollow of the mirror he thought that he saw the long white + road, the mists, the little wood and some one running. . . . + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him that Margaret was not there, that the room was dark and + very heavy, that some bell was ringing in his ear. . . . Then about him a + thousand voices were murmuring: "Tell her—tell her—tell her + the truth." + </p> + <p> + With a last effort he tried to cry "I will not tell her." + </p> + <p> + His lips broke on her name "Margaret." Then, with a little sigh, tumbling + forward, he fainted. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII — MRS. CRAVEN + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + Afterwards, lying in his easy chair before his fire, he was allowed a + brief and beautiful respite. It was almost as though he were already dead—as + though, consciously, he might lie there, apart from the world, freed from + the eternal pursuit, at last unharassed, and hold, with both hands, that + glorious certainty—Margaret. + </p> + <p> + He had a picture of her now. He was lying where he had tumbled, there on + the floor with the silver trays and boxes, the odd tables, the gimcrack + chairs all about him. Slowly he had opened his eyes and had gazed, + instantly, as though the gates of heaven had rolled back for him, into her + face. She was kneeling on the floor, one hand was behind his head, the + other bathed his forehead. He could see her breasts (so little, so gentle) + rise and fall beneath her thin dress, and her great dark eyes caught his + soul and held it. + </p> + <p> + In that one great moment God withdrew. For the first time in his knowledge + of her they were alone, and in the kiss that he gave to her when he drew + her down to him they met for the first time. Death and the anger of God + might come to him—that great moment could never be taken from him. + It was his. . . . + </p> + <p> + He had seen that she was gravely distressed with his fainting, and he had + been able to give her no reason beyond the heat of the room. He could see + that she was puzzled and felt that there was some mystery there that she + was not to know, but she too had found in that last kiss a glorious + certainty that no other hazard could possibly destroy. + </p> + <p> + He loved her—she loved him. Let the Gods thunder! + </p> + <p> + But he knew, nevertheless, as he lay back there in the chair, that he had + received a sign. That primrose path with Margaret was not to be allowed + him, and so sure was he that now he could lie back and look at it all as + though he were a spectator and wonder in what way God intended to work it + out. The other side of him—the fighting, battling creature—was, + for the moment, dormant. Soon Bunning would come in and then the fight + would begin again, but for the instant there was peace—the first + peace that he had known since that far-away evening in St. Martin's + Chapel. + </p> + <p> + As with a drowning man (it is said) so now with Olva his past life + stretched, in panorama, before him. He saw the high rocky grey building + with its rough shape and shaggy lichen, its neglected courtyard, its + iron-barred windows, the gaunt trees, like witches, that hemmed it, the + white ribbon of road, far, far below it, the shining gleam of the river + hidden by purple hills. He saw his father—huge, flowing grey beard, + eyebrows stuck, like leeches, on to his weather-beaten face, his gnarled + and knotted hands. He saw himself a tiny boy with thin black hair and + grave eyes watching his father as he bathed in the mill-pool below the + house—his father rising naked from the stream, hung with the mists + of early morning, naked with enormous chest, huge flanks, his beard black + then and sweeping across his breast, his great thighs shining with the + dripping water—primitive, primeval, in the heart of the early + morning silence. + </p> + <p> + Many, many other pictures of those first days, but always Olva and his + father, moving together, speaking but seldom, sitting before the fire in + the evenings, watching the blaze, despising the world. The contempt that + his father had for his fellow-beings! Had a man ever been so alone? Olva + himself had drunk of that same contempt and welcomed his solitude at + Harrow. The world had been with him a place of war, of hostility, until he + had struck that blow in Sannet Wood. He remembered the eagerness with + which, at the end of term, he had hastened back to his father. After the + noise and clatter of school life how wonderful to go back to the still + sound of dripping water, to the crackle of dry leaves under foot, to the + heavy solemn tread of cattle, to those evenings when at his father's side + he heard the coals click in the fire and the old clock on the stairs + wheeze out the passing minutes. That relationship with his father bad + been, until this term, the only emotion in his life—and now? And + now! + </p> + <p> + It was incredible this change that had come to him. First there was + Margaret and then, after her, Mrs. Craven, Rupert, Lawrence, Cardillac, + Bunning. All these persons, in varying degree, bad become of concern to + him. The world that had always been a place of smoke, of wind, of sky, was + now, of a sudden, crowded with figures. He bad been swept from the + hill-top down into the market-place. He had been given perhaps one keen + glance of a moving world before he was drawn from it altogether. . . . + Now, just as he had tasted human companionship and loved it, must he die? + </p> + <p> + He knew, too, that his recent popularity in the College had pleased him. + He wanted them to like him . . . he was proud to feel that because he was + he therefore Cardillac resigned, willingly, his place to him. But if + Cardillac knew him for a felon, knew that he might be hanged in the dark + and flung into a nameless grave, what then? If Cardillac knew what Rupert + Craven almost knew, would not his horror be the same? The world, did it + only know. . . . + </p> + <p> + To-morrow was the day of the Dublin match. Olva and Cardillac were both + playing, and at the end of the game choice might be made between them. Did + Olva care? He did not know . . . but Margaret was coming, and, in the back + of his mind, he wanted to show her what he could do. + </p> + <p> + And yet, whilst that Shadow hovered in the Outer Court, how little a thing + this stir and movement was! No tumult that the material world could ever + make could sound like that whisper that was with him now again in the room—with + him at his very heart—"All things betray Thee. . . ." + </p> + <p> + The respite was over. Bunning came in. + </p> + <p> + Change had seized Bunning. Here now was the result of his having pulled + himself together. Olva could see that the man bad made up his mind to + something, and that, further, he was resolved to keep his purpose secret. + It was probably the first occasion in Bunning's life of such resolution. + There was a faint colour in the fat cheeks, the eyes bad a little light + and the man scarcely spoke at all lest this purpose should trickle from + his careless lips. Also as he looked at Olva his customary devotion was + heightened by an air of frightened pride. + </p> + <p> + Olva, watching him, was apprehensive—the devotion of a fool is the + most dangerous thing in creation. + </p> + <p> + "Well, have you seen Craven again?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes. We had a talk." + </p> + <p> + "What did he say?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, nothing." + </p> + <p> + "Rot. He didn't stop and talk to you about the weather. Come on, Bunning, + what have you been up to?" + </p> + <p> + "I haven't been up to anything." + </p> + <p> + The man's lips were closed. For another half an hour Bunning sat in a + chair before the fire—silent. Every now and again he flung a glance + at Olva. Sometimes he jerked his head towards the window as though he + heard a step. + </p> + <p> + He had the look of a Christian going into the amphitheatre to face the + Beasts. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + About eleven o'clock of the next morning Olva went to see Margaret. He had + written to her the night before and asked her not to tell Rupert the news + of their engagement immediately, but, when the morning came, he could not + rest with that. He must know more. + </p> + <p> + It was a damp, misty morning, the fine frost had gone. He was going to + Margaret to try and recover some reality out of the state that he was in. + The recent incidents—Craven's suspicions, the 5th of November + evening, Bunning's alarm, the scene with Margaret—bad dragged him + for a time from that conviction that he was living in an unreal world. + That day when he had run in the snowstorm from Sannet Wood had seemed to + him, during these last weeks, absurd and an effect, obviously, of excited + nerves. Now, on this morning of the Dublin match, he awoke again to that + unreal condition. The bedmaker, the men passing through the Court beneath + his windows, the porter at the gate—these people were unreal, and + above him, around him, the mist seemed ever about to break into new + terrible presences. + </p> + <p> + "This thing is wearing me down. I shall go off my head if something + definite doesn't happen"—and then, there in his room with the stupid + breakfast things still on the table, the consciousness of the presence of + God seized him so that he felt as though the pursuit were suddenly at an + end and there was nothing left now but complete submission. + </p> + <p> + In this world of wraiths, God was the most certain Presence. . . . + </p> + <p> + There remained only Margaret. Perhaps she could recover reality for him. + He went to her. + </p> + <p> + He found her waiting for him in the little drawing-room and he could not + see her. He knew then that the Pursuing Shadow had taken a new step. It + was literally physically true. The room was there, the shining things, the + knick-knacks, the mirror, the scent of oranges. He could see her body, her + black dress, her eyes, her white neck, the movement towards him that she + made when she saw him coming, but there was nothing there. It was as + though he had been asked to love a picture. + </p> + <p> + He could not think of her at all as Margaret Craven or of himself as Olva + Dune. Only in the glass's reflection he saw the white road stretching to + the wood. + </p> + <p> + "I really am going off my head. She'll see that something's up"—and + then from the bottom of his heart, far away as though it had been the cry + of another person, "Oh! how I want her How I want her!" + </p> + <p> + He took her in his arms and kissed her and felt as though he were dead and + she were dead and that they were both, being so young am eager for life, + struggling to get back existence again. + </p> + <p> + Her voice came to him from a long distance "Olva, how ill you look! What + is it? What won't you tell me? There's something the matter with you all + and you all keep me in the dark." + </p> + <p> + He said nothing and she went on very gently, "It would be so much better, + dear, if you were to tell me. After all, I'm part of you now, aren't I? + Perhaps I can help you." + </p> + <p> + His own voice, from a long distance, said: "I don't think that you can + help me, Margaret." + </p> + <p> + She put her hand on his arm and looked up into his face. "I am trying to + help you all, but it is so difficult if you will tell me nothing. And, + Olva dear, if it is something that you have done—something that you + are afraid to tell me—believe me, dear, that there's nothing—nothing + in the world—that you could have done that would matter to me now. I + love you—nothing can alter that." + </p> + <p> + He tried to feel that the hand on his arm was real. With a great effort he + spoke: "Have you told Rupert?" + </p> + <p> + "Mother told him last night." + </p> + <p> + "What did he say?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't know—but they had a terrible scene. Rupert," her lip + quivered, "went away without a word last night. Only he told mother that + if I would not give you up he would never come into the house again. But + he loves me more than any one in the world, and he can't do without me. I + know that he can't, and I know that he will come back. Mother wants to see + you; perhaps you will go up to her." + </p> + <p> + She had moved back from him and was looking at him with sad perplexity. He + knew that he must seem strange and cold standing there, in the middle of + the room, without making any movement towards her, but he could not help + himself, he seemed to have no power over his own actions. + </p> + <p> + Coming up to him she flung her arms round his neck. "Olva, Olva, tell me, + I can't endure it"—but slowly he detached himself from her and left + her. + </p> + <p> + As he went through the dark close passage he wondered how God could be so + cruel. + </p> + <p> + When he came into Mrs. Craven's room he knew that her presence comforted + him. The dark figure on the faded sofa by the fire seemed to him now more + real than anything else in the world. Although Mrs. Craven made no + movement yet he felt that she encouraged him come to her, that she wanted + him. The room was very dark and bare, and although a large fire blazed in + the hearth, it was cold. Beyond the window a misty world, dank, with + dripping trees, stretched to a dim horizon. Mrs. Craven did not turn her + eyes from the fire when she heard him enter. He felt as though she were + watching him and knew that he had drawn a chair beside the sofa. Suddenly + she moved her hand towards him and he took it and held it for a moment. + </p> + <p> + She turned and he saw that she had been crying. + </p> + <p> + "I had a talk with my son last night," she said at last, and her voice + seemed to him the saddest thing that he had ever heard. "We had always + loved one another until lately. Last night he spoke to me as he has never + spoken before. He was very angry and I know that he did not mean all that + he said to me—but it hurt me." + </p> + <p> + "I'm afraid, Mrs. Craven, that it was because of me. Rupert is very angry + with me and he refuses to consent to Margaret's marriage with me. Is not + that so?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but it is not only that. For many weeks now he has not been himself + with me. I am not a happy woman. I have had much to make me unhappy. My + children are a very great deal to me. I think that this has broken my + heart." + </p> + <p> + "Mrs. Craven, if there is anything that I can do that will put things + right, if I can say anything to Rupert, if I can tell him anything, + explain anything, I will. I think I can tell you, Mrs. Craven, why it is + that Rupert does not wish me to marry Margaret. I have something to + confess—to you." + </p> + <p> + Then he was defeated at last? He had surrendered? In another moment the + words "I killed Carfax and Rupert knows that I killed him" would have left + his lips—but Mrs. Craven had not heard his words. Her face was + turned away from him again and she spoke in a strange, monotonous voice as + one speaks in a dream. + </p> + <p> + The words seemed to be created out of the faded sofa, the misty window, + the dim shadowy bed. She was crying—her hands were pressed to her + face—the words came between her sobs. + </p> + <p> + "It is too much for me. All these years I have kept silence. Now I can + bear it no longer. If Rupert leaves me, it will kill me, but unless I + speak to some one I shall die of all this silence, . . . I cannot bear any + longer to be alone with God." + </p> + <p> + Was it his own voice? Were these his own words? Had things gone so far + with him that he did not know—"I cannot bear any longer to be alone + with God. . . ." Was not that his own perpetual cry? + </p> + <p> + "Mr. Dune, I killed my husband." + </p> + <p> + In the silence that followed the only sound was her stifled crying and the + crackling fire. + </p> + <p> + "You knew from the beginning." + </p> + <p> + "No, I did not know." + </p> + <p> + "But you were different from all the others. I felt it at once when I saw + you. You knew, you understood, you were sorry for me." + </p> + <p> + "I am sorry. I understand. But I did not know." + </p> + <p> + "Let me tell you." She turned her face towards him and began to speak + eagerly. + </p> + <p> + He took her hand between his. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! the relief—now at once—after all these years of silence. + Fifteen years. . . . It happened when Rupert was a tiny boy. You see he + was a bad man. I found it out almost at once—after a month or two. + But I loved him madly—utterly. I did not care about his being bad—that + does not matter to a woman—but he set about breaking my heart. It + amused him. Margaret was born. He used to terrify me with the things that + he would teach her. He said that he would make her as big a devil as he + was himself. I prayed God that I might never have another child and then + Rupert was born. From that moment my one prayer was that my husband might + die. + </p> + <p> + "At last my opportunity came. He fell ill—dreadful attacks of heart—and + one night he had a terrible attack and I held back the medicine that would + have saved him. I saw his eyes watching me, pleading for it. I stood and + waited . . . he died." + </p> + <p> + She stopped for a moment—then her words came more slowly: "It was a + very little thing—it was not a very bad thing—he was a wicked + man . . . but God has punished me and He will punish me until I die. All + these years He has pursued me, urging me to confess—I have fought + and struggled against it, but at last He has beaten me—He has driven + me. . . . Oh! the relief! the relief!" + </p> + <p> + She looked at him curiously. + </p> + <p> + "If you did not know, why did I feel that you understood and sympathized? + Have you no horror of me now?" + </p> + <p> + For answer, he bent and kissed her cheek. + </p> + <p> + "I too am very lonely. I too know what God can do." + </p> + <p> + Then she clung to him as though she would never let him leave her. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV — GOD + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + Half an hour later he was in his room again, and the real world had come + back to him. It had come back with the surprise of some supernatural + mechanism; it was as though the sofa, chairs, pictures had five minutes + before been grass and toadstools in a world of mist and now were sofa, + chairs and pictures again. + </p> + <p> + He was absolutely sane, whereas half an hour ago he had been held almost + by an enchantment. If Margaret were here with him now, here in his room—not + in that dim, horrible Rocket Road house, raised it might almost seem by + the superstitions and mists of his own conscience—ah! how he would + love her! + </p> + <p> + He was filled with a sense of energy and enterprise. He would have it out + with Rupert, laugh away his suspicions, reconcile him to the idea of the + marriage, finally drag Margaret from that horrible house. As with a man + who has furious attacks of neuralgia, and between the agony of them feels, + so great is the relief, that no pain will ever come to him again, so Olva + was now, for an instant, the Olva of a month ago. + </p> + <p> + Four times had the Pursuer thus given him respite—on the morning + after the murder, in St. Martin's Chapel on that same evening, after his + confession to Bunning, and now. But Aegidius, looking down from his wall, + saw the strong, stern face of his young friend and loved him and knew + that, at last, the pursuit was at an end. . . . + </p> + <p> + Bunning came in. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + Bunning came in. The little silver clock had just struck a quarter to one. + The match was at half-past two. + </p> + <p> + Olva knew at his first sight of Bunning that something had happened. The + man seemed dazed, he dragged his great legs slowly after him and planted + them on the floor as though he wanted something that was secure, like a + man who had begun desperately to slip down a crevasse. His back was bowed + and his cheeks were flushed as though some one had been striking him, but + his eyes told Olva everything. They were the eyes of a child who has been + wakened out of sleep and sees Terror. + </p> + <p> + "What is it? Sit down. Pull yourself together." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! Dune! . . . My God, Dune!" The man's voice had the unreality of men + walking in a cinematograph. "Craven's coming." + </p> + <p> + "Coming! Where?" + </p> + <p> + "Here!" + </p> + <p> + "Now?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't know—when. He knows." + </p> + <p> + "You told him?" + </p> + <p> + "I thought it best. I thought I was doing right. It's all gone wrong. Oh! + these last two days! what I've suffered!" + </p> + <p> + Now for the first time in the history of the whole affair Olva Dune may be + said to have felt sheer physical terror, not terror of the mist, of the + road, of the darkness, of the night, but terror of physical things—of + the loss of light and air, of the denial of food, of physical death. . . . + For a moment the room swam about him. He heard, in the Court below him, + some men laughing—a dog was barking. Then he saw that Bunning was on + the edge of hysteria. The bedmaker would come in and find him laughing—as + he had laughed once before. + </p> + <p> + Olva stilled the room with a tremendous effort—the floor sank, the + table and chairs tossed no longer. + </p> + <p> + "Now, Bunning, tell me quickly. They'll be here to lay lunch in a minute. + What have you told Craven? And why have you told him anything?" + </p> + <p> + "I told him—yesterday—that I did it." + </p> + <p> + "That <i>you</i> did it?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, that I murdered Carfax." + </p> + <p> + "My God! You fool! . . . You fool!" + </p> + <p> + A most dangerous thing this devotion of a fool. + </p> + <p> + But, strangely, Olva's words roused in Bunning a kind of protest, so that + he pulled his eyes back into their sockets, steadied his hands, held his + boots firmly to the floor, and, quite softly, with a little note of + urgency in it as though he were pleading before a great court, said— + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I know. But he drove me to it; Craven did. I thought it was the only + way to save you. He's been at me now for days; ever since that time he + stopped me in Outer Court and asked me why I was a friend of yours. He's + been coming to my room—at night—at all sorts of times—and + just sitting there and looking at me." + </p> + <p> + Olva came across and touched Bunning's arm: "Poor Bunning! What a brute I + was to tell you!" + </p> + <p> + "He used to come and say nothing—just look at me. I couldn't stand + it, you know. I'm not a clever man—not at all clever—and I + used to try and think of things to talk about, but it always seemed to + come back to Carfax—every time." + </p> + <p> + "And then—when you told me the other day about your caring for Miss + Craven—I felt that I must do something. I'd always puzzled, you + know, why I should be brought into it at all. I didn't seem to be the sort + of fellow who'd be likely to be mixed up with a man like you. I felt that + it must be with some purpose, you know, and now—now—I thought + I suddenly saw— + </p> + <p> + "I don't know—I thought he'd believe me—I thought he'd tell + the police and they'd arrest me—and that'd be the end of it." + </p> + <p> + Here Bunning took a handkerchief and began miserably to gulp and sniff. + </p> + <p> + "But, good heavens!" Olva cried, "you didn't suppose that they wouldn't + discover it all at the police-station in a minute! Two questions and you'd + be done! Why, man——!" + </p> + <p> + "I didn't know. I thought it would be all right. I was all alone that + afternoon, out for a walk by myself—and you'd told me how you did + it. I'd only got to tell the same story. I couldn't see how any one should + know—-I couldn't really . . . I don't suppose"—many gulps—"that + I thought much about that—I only wanted to save you." + </p> + <p> + How bright and wonderful the day! How full of colour the world! And it was + all over, all absolutely, finally done. + </p> + <p> + "Now—look here, stop that sniffing—it's all right. I'm not + angry with you. Just tell me exactly what you said to Craven yesterday + when you told him." + </p> + <p> + Bunning thought. "Well, he came into my room quite early after my + breakfast. I was reading my Bible, as I used to, you know, every morning, + to see whether I could be interested again, as I used to be. I was finding + I couldn't when Craven came in. He looked queer. He's been looking queerer + every day, and I don't think he's been sleeping. Then he began to ask me + questions, not actually about anything, but odd questions like, Where was + I born? and Why did I read the Bible? and things like that—just to + make me comfortable—and his eyes were so funny, red and small and + never still. Then he got to you." + </p> + <p> + The misery now in Bunning's eyes was more than Olva could bear. It was + dumb, uncomprehending misery, the unhappiness of something caught in a + trap—and that trap this glittering dancing world! + </p> + <p> + "Then he got to you! He always asked me the same questions. How long I'd + known you?—Why we got on together when we were so different?—silly + meaningless things—and he didn't listen to my answers. He was always + thinking of the next things to ask and that frightened me so." + </p> + <p> + The misery in Bunning's eyes grew deeper. + </p> + <p> + "Suddenly I thought I saw what was meant—that I was intended to take + it on myself. It made me warm all over, the though of it. . . . Now, I was + going to do something . . . that's how I saw it!" + </p> + <p> + "Going to do something . . ." he repeated desperately, with choking sobs + between the words. "It's all happened so quickly. He had just said + absently, not looking at me, 'You like Dune, don't you?' + </p> + <p> + "When I came out with it all at once—-I said, 'Yes, I know, I know + what <i>you</i> want. You think that Dune killed Carfax and that <i>I</i> + know he did, but he didn't <i>I</i> killed Carfax. . . .'" + </p> + <p> + Bunning's voice quite rang out. His eyes now desperately sought Olva's + face, as though he would find there something that would make the world + less black. + </p> + <p> + "I wasn't frightened—-not then—-that was the odd thing. The + only thing I thought about was saving you—-getting you out of it. I + didn't see! I didn't see!" + </p> + <p> + "And then—-what did Craven say?" Olva asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + "Craven said scarcely anything. He asked me whether I realized what I was + saying, whether I saw what I was in for? I said 'Yes'—-that it had + all been too much for my conscience, that I had to tell some one—-all + the things that you told me. Then he asked me why I'd done it. I told him + because Carfax always bullied me—-he did, you know—-and that + one day I couldn't stand it any longer and I met him in the wood and hit + him. He said, 'You must be very strong,' and of course I'm not, you know, + and that ought to have made me suspect something. But it didn't. . . . + Then he said he must think over what he ought to do, but all the time he + was saying it I knew he was thinking of something else and then he went + away." + </p> + <p> + "That was yesterday morning?" + </p> + <p> + "Yesterday morning, and all day I was terrified, but happy too. I thought + I'd done a big thing and I thought that the police would come and carry me + off. . . . Nothing happened all day. I sat there waiting. And I thought of + you—-that you'd be able to marry Miss Craven and would be very + happy. + </p> + <p> + "Then, this morning, coming from chapel, Craven stopped me. I thought he + was going to tell me that he'd thought it his duty to give me away. He + would, you know. But it wasn't that. + </p> + <p> + "All he said was: 'I wonder how you know so much about it, Bunning.' I + couldn't say anything. Then he said, 'I'm going to ask Dune.' That was all + . . . all," he wretchedly repeated, and then, with a movement of utter + despair, flung his head into his hands, and cried. + </p> + <p> + Olva, standing straight with his hands at his side, looked through his + window at the world—-at the white lights on the lower sky, at the + pearl grey roofs and the little cutting of dim white street and the high + grey college wall. He was to begin again, it seemed, at the state in which + he'd been on the day after Carfax's murder. Then he had been sure that + arrest would only be a question of hours and he had resolutely faced it + with the resolve that he would drain all the life, all the vigour, all the + fun from the minutes that remained to him. + </p> + <p> + Now he had come back to that. Craven would give him away, perhaps . . . he + would, at any rate, drive him away from Margaret. But he would almost + certainly feel it his duty to expose him. He would feel that that would + end the complication with his sister once and for all—-the easiest + way. He would feel it his duty—-these people and their duty! + </p> + <p> + Well, at least he would have his game of football first—-no one + could take his afternoon away from him. Margaret would be there to watch + him and he would play! Oh! he would play as he had never played in his + life before! + </p> + <p> + Bunning's voice came to him from a great distance—- + </p> + <p> + "What are you going to do? What are you going to say to Craven?" + </p> + <p> + "Say to him? Why, I shall tell him, of course—-tell him everything." + </p> + <p> + Bunning leapt from his chair. In his urgency he put his hands on Olva's + arm: "No, no, no. You mustn't do that. Why it will be as though I'd + murdered you. Tell him I did it. Make him believe it. You can—-you're + clever enough. Make him feel that I did it. You mustn't, mustn't—-let + him know. Oh, please, please. I'll kill myself if you do. I will really." + </p> + <p> + Olva gravely, quietly, put his hands on Bunning's shoulders. + </p> + <p> + "It's all right—-it had to come out. I've been avoiding it all this + time, escaping it, but it had to come. Don't you be afraid of it. I + daresay Craven won't do anything. After all he loves his sister and she + cares for him. That will influence him. But, anyhow, all that's done with. + There are bigger things in question than Craven knowing about Carfax, and + you were meant to tell him—-you were really. You've just forced me + to see what's the right thing to do—-that's all." + </p> + <p> + Bunning was, surely, in the light of it, a romantic figure. + </p> + <p> + Miss Annett came in with the lunch. + </p> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> + <p> + As Olva was changing into his football things, Cardillac appeared. + </p> + <p> + "Come up to the field with me, will you? I've got a hansom." + </p> + <p> + Olva finished tying his boots and stood up. Cardillac looked at him. + </p> + <p> + "My word, you seem fit." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I'm splendid, thanks." + </p> + <p> + He felt splendid. Never before had he been so conscious of the right to be + alive. His football clothes smelt of the earth and the air. He moved his + arms and legs with wonderful freedom. His blood was pumping through his + body as though death, disease, infirmity such things—-were of + another planet. + </p> + <p> + For such a man as he there should only be air, love, motion, the begetting + of children, the surprising splendour of a sudden death. Now already + Craven was waiting for him. + </p> + <p> + He had sent a note round to Craven's rooms; he had said, "Come in to see + me after the match—-five o'clock. I have something to tell you." + </p> + <p> + At five o'clock then. . . . + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile it was nice of Cardillac to come. They exchanged no words about + it, but they understood one another entirely. It was as though Cardillac + had said—-"I expect that you're going to knock me out of this Rugger + Blue as you knocked me out of the Wolves, and I want to show you that + we're pals all the way through." + </p> + <p> + What Cardillac really said was—-"Have a cigarette? These are + Turkish. Feel like playing a game to-day?" + </p> + <p> + "Never felt better in my life." + </p> + <p> + "Well, these Dublin fellows haven't had their line crossed yet this + season. May one of us have the luck to do it." + </p> + <p> + "Pretty hefty lot of forwards." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, O'Brien's their spot Three I believe." + </p> + <p> + Olva and Cardillac attracted much attention as they walked through the + College. Miss Annett, watching them from a little window where she washed + plates, gulped in her thin throat with pride for "that Mr. Dune. There's a + gentleman!" The sun above the high grey buildings broke slowly through + yellow clouds. The roads were covered with a thin fine mud and, from the + earth, faint clouds of mist rose and vanished into a sky that was slowly + crumbling from thick grey into light watery blue. + </p> + <p> + The cold air beat upon their faces as the hansom rattled past Dunstan's, + over the bridge, and up the hill towards the field. + </p> + <p> + Cardillac talked. "There goes Braff. He doesn't often come up to a game + nowadays—must be getting on for seventy—the greatest half the + 'Varsity's ever had, I suppose." + </p> + <p> + "It's a good thing this mud isn't thicker. It won't make the ball bad. + That game against Monkstown the other day! My word. . . ." + </p> + <p> + But Olva was not listening. It seemed to him now that two separate + personalities were divided in him so sharply that it was impossible to + reconcile them. + </p> + <p> + There was Olva Dune concentrating all his will, his mentality, upon the + game that he was about to play. This was his afternoon. After it there + would be darkness, death, what you will—parting from Margaret—all + purely physical emotions. + </p> + <p> + The other Olva felt nothing physical. The game, confession to Rupert, + trial, imprisonment, even separation from Margaret, all these things were + nothing in comparison with some great business that was in progress behind + it all, as real life may go on behind the painted back cloth of a stage. + Here were amazing happenings, although at present he was confused and + bewildered by them. It was not that Olva was, actually, at the instant + conscious of actual impressions, but rather that great emotions, great + surprising happiness, seemed to shine on some horizon. It was as though + something had said to his soul, "Presently you will feel a joy, a + splendour, that you had never in your wildest thoughts imagined." + </p> + <p> + The pursuit was almost at an end. He was now enveloped, enfolded. Already + everything to him—even his love for Margaret—was trivial in + comparison with the effect of some atmosphere that was beginning to hem + him in on every side. + </p> + <p> + But against all this was the other Olva—the Olva who desired + physical strength, love, freedom, health. + </p> + <p> + Well, let it all be as confusing as it might, he would play his game. But + as he walked into the Pavilion he knew that the prelude to his real life + had only a few more hours to run. . . . + </p> + <h3> + 4 + </h3> + <p> + As he passed, with the rest of the team, up the field, he observed two + things only; one thing was Margaret, standing on the left side of the + field just below the covered stand—he could see her white face and + her little black hard hat. + </p> + <p> + The other thing was that on the horizon where the wall at the further end + of the field cut the sky there were piled, as though resting on the top of + the wall, high white clouds. For a moment these clouds, piled in mountain + shape of an intense whiteness with round curving edges, held his eyes + because they exactly resembled those clouds that had hung above him on the + day of his walk to Sannet Wood—the day when he had been caught by + the snowstorm. These clouds brooded, waiting above him; their dazzling + white had the effect of a steady, unswerving gaze. + </p> + <p> + They lined out. He took his place as centre three-quarter with Cardillac + outside left and Tester and Buchan on the other wing. Old Lawrence was + standing, a solid rock of a figure, back. There was a great crowd present. + The tops of the hansom cabs in the road beyond rose above the wall, and he + could hear, muffled with distance, shots from the 'Varsity firing range. + </p> + <p> + All these things focussed themselves upon his brain in the moment before + the whistle went; the whistle blew, the Dublin men had kicked off, Tester + had fielded the ball, sent it back into touch, and the game had begun. + </p> + <p> + This was to be the game of his life and yet he could not centre his + attention upon it. He was conscious that Whymper—the great Whymper—was + acting as linesman and watching every movement. He knew that for most of + that great crowd his was the figure that was of real concern, he knew that + he was as surely battling for his lady as though he had been fighting, + tournament-wise, six hundred years ago. + </p> + <p> + But it all seemed of supreme unimportance. To-night he was to face Rupert, + to state, once and for all, that he had killed Carfax, to submit Margaret + to a terrible test . . . even that of no importance. All life was + insignificant beside something that was about to happen; before the gaze + of that white dazzling cloud be felt that he stood, a little pigmy, alone + on a brown spreading field. + </p> + <p> + The game was up at the University end. The Dublin men were pressing and + the Cambridge forwards seemed to have lost their heads. It was a case now + of "scrum," lining out, and "scrum" again. The Cambridge men got the ball, + kept it between their heels and tried, desperately to wheel with it and + carry it along with them. It escaped them, dribbled out of the scrimmage, + the Cambridge half leapt upon it, but the Dublin man was upon him before + he could get it away. It was on the ground again, the Dublin forwards + dribbled it a little and then some one, sweeping it into his arms, fell + forward with it, over the line, the Cambridge men on top of him. + </p> + <p> + Dublin had scored a try, and a goal from an easy angle followed—Dublin + five points. + </p> + <p> + They all moved back to the centre of the field and now the Cambridge men, + rushing the ball from a line-out in their favour, pressed hard. At last + the ball came to the three-quarters. Tester caught it, it passed to + Buchan, who as he fell flung it right out to Cardillac; Cardillac draw his + man, swerved, and sent it back to Olva. As Olva felt the neat hard surface + of it, as he knew that the way was almost clear before him, his feet + seemed clogged with heavy weights. Something was about to happen to him—something, + but not this. The crowd behind the ropes were shouting, he knew that he + was himself running, but it seemed that only his body was moving, his real + self was standing back, gazing at those white clouds—waiting. + </p> + <p> + He knew that he made no attempt to escape the man in front of him; he + seemed to run straight into his arms; he heard a little sigh go up from + behind the ropes, as he tumbled to the ground, letting the ball trickle + feebly from his fingers. A try missed if ever one was! + </p> + <p> + No one said anything, but he felt the disappointment in the air. He knew + what they were saying—"One of Dune's off days! I always said you + couldn't depend upon the man. He's just too sidey to care what happens. . + . ." + </p> + <p> + Well they might say it if they would; his eyes were on the horizon. + </p> + <p> + But his failure had had its effect. Let there be an individualist in the + line and Tester and Buchan would play their well-ordered game to + perfection. They relied as a rule upon Whymper—to-day they had + depended upon Dune. Well Dune had failed them, the forwards were heeling + so slowly, the scrum-half was never getting the ball away—it was a + miserable affair. + </p> + <p> + The Dublin forwards pressed again. For a long time the two bodies of men + swayed backwards and forwards; in the University twenty-five Lawrence was + performing wonders. He seemed to be everywhere at once, bringing men down, + seizing, in a lightning flash of time, his opportunity for relieving by + kicking into touch. + </p> + <p> + Twice the ball went to the Dublin three-quarters and they seemed certainly + in, but on the first occasion a man slipped and on the second Olva caught + his three-quarter and brought him sharply to the ground. It was the only + piece of work that he had done. + </p> + <p> + More struggling—then away on the right some Dublin man had caught it + and was running. Some one dashed at him to hurl him into touch, but he + slipped past and was in. + </p> + <p> + Another try—the kick was again successful—Dublin ten points. + </p> + <p> + The half-time whistle blew. As the met gathered into groups in the middle + of the field, sucking lemons and gathering additional melancholy there + from, Olva stood a little away from them. Whymper came out into the field + to exhort and advise. As he passed Olva he said— + </p> + <p> + "Rather missed that try of yours. Ought to have gone a bit faster." + </p> + <p> + He did not answer, it seemed to be no concern of his at all. He was now + trembling it every limb, but his excitement had nothing to do with the + game. It seemed to him that the earth and the sky were sharing his emotion + am he could feel in the air a great exaltation. I was becoming literally + true for him that earth air, sky were praising at this moment, in + wonderful unison, some great presence. + </p> + <p> + "All things betray Thee who betrayest Me. . . ." Now he understood what + that line had intended him to feel—the very sods crushed by his + boots were leading him to submission. + </p> + <p> + The whistle sounded. His back now was turned to the white clouds; he was + facing the high stone wall and the tops of the hansom cabs. + </p> + <p> + The game began again. The Dublin men were determined to drive their + advantage to victory. Another goal and their lead might settle, once and + for all, the issue. + </p> + <p> + Olva was standing back, listening. The earth was humming like a top. A + voice seemed to be borne on the wind—"Coming, Coming, Coming." + </p> + <p> + He felt that the clouds were spreading behind him and a little wind seemed + to be whispering in the grass—"Coming, Coming, Coming." His very + existence now was strung to a pitch of expectation. + </p> + <p> + As in a dream he saw that a Dublin man with the ball had got clear away + from the clump of Cambridge forwards, and was coming towards him. Behind + him only was Lawrence. He flung himself at the man's knees, caught them, + falling himself desperately forward. They both came crashing to the + ground. It was a magnificent collar, and Olva, as he fell, heard, as + though it were miles away, a rising shout, saw the sky bend down to him, + saw the ball as it was jerked up rise for a moment into the air—was + conscious that some one was running. + </p> + <h3> + 5 + </h3> + <p> + He was on his knees, alone, on the vast field that sloped a little towards + the horizon. + </p> + <p> + Before him the mountain clouds were now lit with a clear silver light so + dazzling that his eyes were lowered. + </p> + <p> + About him was a great silence. He was himself minute in size, a tiny, tiny + bending figure. + </p> + <p> + Many years passed. + </p> + <p> + A great glory caught the colour from the sky and earth and held it like a + veil before the cloud. + </p> + <p> + In a voice of the most radiant happiness Olva cried— + </p> + <p> + "I have fled—I am caught—I am held . . . Lord, I submit." + </p> + <p> + And for the second time he heard God's voice— + </p> + <p> + "My Son . . . My Son." + </p> + <p> + He felt a touch—very gentle and tender—on his shoulder. + </p> + <h3> + 6 + </h3> + <p> + Many years had passed. He opened his eyes and saw the ball that had been + rising, many years ago, now falling. + </p> + <p> + The man whom he had collared was climbing to his feet; behind them men + were bending down for a "scrum." The shout that he had heard when he had + fallen was still lingering in the air. + </p> + <p> + And yet many years had passed. + </p> + <p> + "Hope you're not hurt," the Dublin man said. "Came down hard." + </p> + <p> + "No, thanks, it's all right." + </p> + <p> + Olva got on to his feet. Some one cried, "Well collared, Dune." + </p> + <p> + He ran back to his place. Now there was no hesitation or confusion. A + vigour like wine filled his body. The Cambridge men now were pressing; the + ball was flung back to Cardillac, who threw to Olva. The Dublin line was + only a few yards away and Olva was over. Lawrence kicked a goal and + Cambridge had now five points to the Dublin ten. + </p> + <p> + Cambridge now awoke to its responsibilities. The Dublin men seemed to be + flagging a little, and Tester and Buchan, having apparently decided that + Olva was himself again, played their accustomed game. + </p> + <p> + But what had happened to Dune? There he had been his old casual superior + self during the first half of the game. Now he was that inspired player + that the Harlequin match had once revealed him. Whymper had spoken to him + at half-time. That was what it was—Whymper had roused him. + </p> + <p> + For he was amazing. He was everywhere. Even when he had been collared, he + was suddenly up, had raced after the three-quarter line, caught them up + and was in the movement again. Five times the Cambridge Threes were going, + were half-way down the field, and were checked by the wonderful Dublin + defence. Again and again Cambridge pressed. There were only ten minutes + left for play and Cambridge were still five points behind. + </p> + <p> + Somebody standing in the crowd said, "By Jove, Dune seems to be enjoying + it. I never saw any one look as happy." + </p> + <p> + Some one else said, "Dune's possessed by a devil or something. I never saw + anything like that pace. He doesn't seem to be watching the game at all, + though." + </p> + <p> + Some one said, "There's going to be a tremendous snowstorm in a minute. + Look at those white clouds." + </p> + <p> + Then, when there were five minutes more to play, there was a forward rush + over the Dublin line—a Cambridge man, struggling at the bottom of a + heap of legs and arms, touched down. A Dublin appeal was made for "Carried + over," but—no—"Try for Cambridge." + </p> + <p> + A deafening shout from behind the ropes, then a breathless pause whilst + Lawrence stepped back to take the kick, then a shattering roar as the ball + sailed between the posts. + </p> + <p> + Ten points all and three minutes left to play. + </p> + <p> + They were back to the centre, the Dublin men had kicked, Tester had + gathered and returned to touch. There was a line-out, a Cambridge man had + the ball and fell, Cambridge dribbled past the ball to the half, the ball + was in Cardillac's hands. + </p> + <p> + Let this be ever to Cardillac's honour! Fame of a lifetime might have been + his, the way was almost clear before him—he passed back to Olva. The + moment had come. The crowd fell first into a breathless silence, then + screamed with excitement— + </p> + <p> + "Dune's got it. He's off!" + </p> + <p> + He had a crowd of men upon him. Handing off, bending, doubling, almost + down, slipping and then up again—he was through them. + </p> + <p> + The great clouds were gathering the grey sky into their white arms. Mr. + Gregg, at the back of the stand, forgetting for once decorum, white and + trembling, was hoarse with shouting. + </p> + <p> + Olva's body seemed so tiny on that vast field—two Dublin + three-quarters came for him. He appeared to run straight into the arms of + both of them and then was through them. They started after him—one + man was running across field to catch him. It was a race. Now there fell + silence as the three men tore after the flying figure. Surely never, in + the annals of Rugby football, had any one run as Olva ran then. Only now + the Dublin back, and he, missing the apparent swerve to the right, + clutched desperately at Olva's back, caught the buckle of his "shorts" and + stood with the thing torn off in his hand. + </p> + <p> + He turned to pursue, but it was too late. Olva had touched down behind the + posts. + </p> + <p> + As he started back with the ball the wide world seemed to be crying and + shouting, waving and screaming. + </p> + <p> + Against the dull grey sky far away an ancient cabman, standing on the top + of his hansom, flourished his whip. + </p> + <p> + But as he stood there the shouting died—the crowds faded—alone + there on the brown field with the white high clouds above him, Olva was + conscious, only, of the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV — PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + He had a bath, changed his clothes, and sitting before his fire waited. + </p> + <p> + As he looked around his room he knew that he was leaving it for ever. What + ever might be the issue of his conversation with Rupert, he knew that that + at any rate was true; he would never return here again—or he would + not return until he had worked out his duty. He looked about him + regretfully; he had grown very fond of that room and the things in it—the + shape of it, the books, the blue bowls, the bright fire, "Aegidius" (but + he would take "Aegidius" with him). He looked last at the photograph of + his father, the rocky eyes, the flowing beard, the massive shoulders. + </p> + <p> + It was back to him that he was going, and he would walk all the way. + Walking alone he would listen, he would watch, he would wait, and then, in + that great silence, he would be told what he must do. + </p> + <p> + In the pleasant crackle of the fire, in the shaded light of the lamp, in + the starlit silence of the College Courts, there seemed such safety; in + his heart there was such happiness; in that moment of waiting for Rupert + Craven to come he learnt once and for all that, in very <i>truth</i>, + there is no gift, no reward, no joy that can equal "the Peace of God," nor + is there any temporal danger, disease or agony that can threaten its + power. + </p> + <p> + As the last notes of the clock in Outer Court striking five died away + Rupert Craven came in. If he had seemed tired and worn-out before, now the + overwhelming impression that he gave was of an unhappiness from which he + seemed to have no outlet. He was young enough to be tormented by the + determination to do the right thing; he was young enough to give his whole + devotion to his sister; he was young enough to admire, against all + determination, Olva's presence and prowess and silence; he was young + enough to be haunted, night and day, by the terrors of his imagination; he + was young enough to be amazed at finding the world a place of Life and + Death; he was young enough finally to be staggered that he personally + should be drawn into the struggle. + </p> + <p> + But now, just now, as he stood in the doorway, he was simply tired, tired + out. He pulled himself together with the obvious intention of being cold + and fierce and judicial. He had cornered Dune at last, he had driven him + to confession, he was a fine fellow, a kind of Fate, the Supreme Judge . . + . this is what he doubtless desired to feel; but he wished that Dune had + not played so wonderful a game that afternoon, that Dune did not now—at + this moment of complete disaster and ruin—look so strangely happy, + that he were himself not so utterly wretched and conscious of his own + failure to do anything as it ought to be done. He did his best; he refused + to sit down, he remained as still as possible, he looked over Dune's head + in order to avoid those shining eyes. + </p> + <p> + The eyes caught him. + </p> + <p> + "Craven, why have you been badgering the wretched Bunning?" + </p> + <p> + "I thought you asked me to come here to tell me something—I didn't + come to answer questions." + </p> + <p> + "We'll come to my part of it in a moment. But I think it's only fair to + answer me first." + </p> + <p> + "What have you got to do with Bunning?" + </p> + <p> + "That's not, immediately, the point. The thing I want to know is, why you + should have chosen, during the last week, to go and torment the hapless + Bunning until you've all but driven him out of his wits." + </p> + <p> + "I don't see what it's got to do with you." + </p> + <p> + "It's got this much to do with me—that he came to me this morning + with a story so absurd that it proves that he can't be altogether right in + his head. He told me that he had confided this absurd story to you." + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. + </p> + <p> + "I don't suppose," Olva went on at last gently, "that we've either of us + got very much time, and there's a great deal to be done, so let's go + straight to it. Bunning told me this morning that he declared to you + yesterday that he—of all people in the world—had murdered + Carfax." + </p> + <p> + "Yes," at last Craven sullenly muttered, "he told me that." + </p> + <p> + "And of course you didn't believe it?" + </p> + <p> + "I didn't believe that <i>he'd</i> done it—no. But he knows who <i>did</i> + do it. He's got all the details. Some one has told him." + </p> + <p> + Craven was trembling. Olva pushed a chair towards him. + </p> + <p> + "Look here, you'd better sit down." + </p> + <p> + Craven sat down. + </p> + <p> + "I know that some one told him," Olva said quietly, "because I told him." + </p> + <p> + "Then you know who——" Craven's voice was a whisper. + </p> + <p> + "I know," said Olva, "because it was I who killed Carfax." + </p> + <p> + Craven took it—-the moment for which he'd been waiting so long—in + the most amazing way. + </p> + <p> + "Oh!" he cried, like a child who has cut its finger. "Oh! I wish you + hadn't!" There was the whole of Craven's young struggle with an astounding + world in that cry. + </p> + <p> + Then, after that, there was a long silence, and had some one come into the + room he would have looked at the two men before the fire and have supposed + that they were gently and comfortably falling off to sleep. + </p> + <p> + Olva at last said; "Of course I know that you have suspected me for a long + time. Everything played into your hands. I have done my very utmost to + prevent your having positive proof of the thing, but that part of the + business is now done with. You know, and you can do what you please with + the knowledge." + </p> + <p> + But, now that the moment had come, Rupert Craven could do nothing with it. + </p> + <p> + "I don't want to do anything," he muttered at last. "I'm not up to doing + anything. I don't understand it. I'm not the sort of fellow who ought to + be in this kind of thing at all." + </p> + <p> + That was how he now saw it, as an unfair advantage that had been taken of + him. This point of view changed his position to the extent of his now + almost appealing to Olva to help him out of it. + </p> + <p> + "Your telling me like that has made it all so difficult. I feel now + suddenly as though I hated Carfax and hadn't the least objection to + somebody doing for him. And <i>that's</i> all wrong—murder's an + awful thing—one ought to feel bad about it." Then finally, with the + cry of a child in the dark, "But this <i>isn't</i> life, it never <i>has</i> + been life since that day I heard of Carfax being killed. It's the sort of + thing—it's been for weeks the sort of thing—that you read of + in books or see at the Adelphi; and I'm not that kind of fellow. I tell + you I've been mad all this last month, getting it on the brain, seeing + things night and day. My one idea was to make you own up to it, but I + never thought of what was going to happen when you did." + </p> + <p> + Olva let him work it out. + </p> + <p> + "Of course I never thought of you for an instant as the man until that + afternoon when you talked in your sleep. Then I began to think and I + remembered what Carfax had said about your hating him. Then I went with + your dog for a walk and we found your matchbox. After that I noticed all + sorts of things and, at the same time, I saw that you were in love with + Margaret. That made me mad. My sister is everything in the world to me, + and it seemed to me that—she should marry a fellow who . . . without + knowing! I began to be ill with it and yet I hadn't any real reasons to + bring forward. You wanted me to show my cards, but I wouldn't. Sometimes I + thought I really <i>was</i> going mad. Then two things made me desperate. + I saw that you had some secret understanding with my mother and I saw—that + my sister loved you. We'd always been tremendous pals—we three, and + it seemed as though every one were siding against me. I saw Margaret + marrying you and mother letting her—although she knew . . . it was + awful—Hell!" + </p> + <p> + He pressed his hands together, his voice shook: "I'd never been in + anything before—no kind of trouble—and now it seemed to put me + right on one side. I couldn't see straight. One moment I hated you, then I + admired you, and the oddest thing of all was that I didn't think about the + actual thing—your having killed Carfax—at all; everything else + was so much more important. I just wanted to be sure that you'd done it + and then—for you to go away and never see any of us again." + </p> + <p> + Olva smiled. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," he said. + </p> + <p> + "But it wasn't until the 5th of November—the 'rag' night—that + I was quite sure. I knew then, when I saw you hitting that fellow, that + you'd killed Carfax. But, of course, that wasn't proof. Then I noticed + Bunning. I saw that he was always with you, and of course it was an odd + sort of friendship for you to have; I could see, too, that he'd got + something on his mind. I went for him—it was all easy enough—and + at last he broke down. Then I'd got you——" + </p> + <p> + "You've got me," said Olva. + </p> + <p> + Rupert looked him, slowly, in the face. "You're wonderful!" Then he added, + almost wistfully, "If Margaret hadn't loved you it wouldn't really any of + it have mattered. I suppose that's very immoral, but that's what it comes + to. Margaret's everything in the world to me and you must tell her." + </p> + <p> + "Of course I will tell her," Olva said. "That's what I ought to have done + from the beginning. That's what I was <i>meant</i> to do. But I had to be + driven to it. What will you do, Craven, if it doesn't matter to her—if + she doesn't care whether I killed Carfax or no?" + </p> + <p> + "At least you'll have told her," the boy replied firmly. "At least she'll + know. Then it's for her to decide. She'll do the right thing," he ended + proudly. + </p> + <p> + "And what do you think that is?" Olva asked him. + </p> + <p> + "I don't know," he answered. "This seems to have altered everything. I + ought now to be hating you—I don't. I ought to shudder at the sight + of you—I don't. The Carfax business seems to have slipped right + back, to be ages ago, not to matter. All I suppose I wanted was to be + reassured about you—if Margaret loved you. And now I <i>am</i> + reassured. I believe you know what to do." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I know what to do," said Olva. "I'm going away to-morrow for a long + time. I shall always love Margaret—there can never be any one else—but + I shall not marry her unless I can come back cleared." + </p> + <p> + "And who—what—can clear you?" + </p> + <p> + "Ah! who knows! There'll be something for me to do, I expect. . . . I will + see Margaret to-morrow—and say good-bye." + </p> + <p> + Craven's face was white, the eyelids had almost closed, his head hung + forward as though it were too heavy to support. + </p> + <p> + "I'm just about done," he murmured, "just about done. It's been all a + beastly dream . . . and now you're all right—you and Margaret—I + haven't got to bother about her any more." + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + After hall Olva went to Cardillac's room for the last time. No one there + knew that it was for the last time. It seemed to them all that he was just + beginning to come out, to be one of them. The football match of that + afternoon had been wonderful enough for anything, and the excitement of it + lingered still about Cardillac's rooms, thick now with tobacco-smoke, + crowded with men, noisy with laughter. The air was so strong with smoke, + the lights so dim, the voices so many, that Olva finding a corner near an + open window slipped, it might almost seem, from the world. Outside the + snow, threatening all day, now fell heavily; the old Court took it with a + gentleness that showed that the snow was meant for it, and the snow + covered the grey roofs and the smooth grass with a satisfaction that could + almost be heard, so deep was it. Just this little window-pane between the + world that Olva was leaving and the world to which he was going! + </p> + <p> + He caught fragments: "Just that last run—gorgeous—but old + Snodky says that that horse of his—-" + </p> + <p> + "My dear fellow, you take it from me—they can't get on without it. . + . . Now a girl I know——" + </p> + <p> + "They fairly fell upon one another's necks and hugged. Talk of the fatted + calf! Now if I'd asked the governor——" + </p> + <p> + Around him there came, with a poignancy, a beauty, that, now that he was + to lose it all, was like a wound, the wonder of this Cambridge. Then he + had it, the marvellous moment! On the other side of the window the still + court, a few twinkling lights, the powdering snow—and here the + vitality, the energy, the glowing sense of two thousand souls marching + together upon Life and seizing it, with a shout, lifting it, stepping out + with it as though it were one long glory! Afterwards what matter? There + had been the moment, never to be forgotten! Cambridge, the beautiful + threshold! + </p> + <p> + For an instant the sense of his own forthcoming journey—away from + life, as it seemed to him—caught him as he sat there. "What will God + do with me?" + </p> + <p> + From the outer world through the whispering snow, he caught the echo of + the Voice—"My Son . . . My Son." + </p> + <p> + Soon he heard Lawrence's tremendous laugh—"Where's Dune? Is he + here?" + </p> + <p> + Lawrence found him and sat down beside him. + </p> + <p> + "By Jupiter, old man, I was frightened for you this afternoon. Until + half-time you were drugged or somethin', and there was I prayin' to my + Druids all I was worth to put back into you. And, my word, they did it I + Talk about that second half—never saw anythin' like it! Have a + drink, old man!" + </p> + <p> + "No, thanks. Yes, I didn't seem to get on to it at all at first." + </p> + <p> + "Well, you're fixed for Queen's Club—just heard—got your Blue + all right. You and Whymper ought to do fine things between you, although + stickin' two individualists together on the same wing like that ain't + exactly my idea, and they don't as a rule settle the team as early as + this"—Lawrence put a large hand on Olva's knee. "Goin' home for + Christmas?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "I expect so." + </p> + <p> + "Well, yer see—I've got a sort of idea. I wish this vac, you'd come + an' stay with us for a bit. Good old sorts, my people. Governor quite a + brainy man—and you could talk, you two. There'll be lots of people + tumblin' about the place—lots goin' on, and the governor'll like to + have a sensible feller once in a way . . . and I'd like it too," he ended + at the bottom of his gruff voice. + </p> + <p> + "Well, you see;" Olva explained, "it depends a bit on my own father. He's + all alone up there at our place, and I like to be with him as much as + possible." Olva looked through the window at the snow, grey against the + sky, white against the college walls. "I don't quite know where I shall be—I + think you must let me write to you." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! <i>that's</i> all right," said Lawrence. "I want you to come along + some time. You'd like the governor—and if you don't mind listening + to an ass like me—well, I'd take it as an honour if you'd talk to me + a bit." + </p> + <p> + As Olva looked Lawrence in the eyes he knew that it would be well with him + if, in his journey through the world, he met again so good a soul. + Cardillac joined them and they all talked for a little. Then Olva said + good-night. + </p> + <p> + He turned for a moment at the door and looked back. Some one at the other + end of the room was singing "Egypt" to a cracked piano. A babel of + laughter, of chatter, every now and again men tumbled against one another, + like cubs in a cave, and rolled upon the floor. Lawrence, his feet planted + wide apart, was standing in the middle of an admiring circle, explaining + something very slowly. + </p> + <p> + "If the old scrum-half," he was saying, "only stood back enough—-" + </p> + <p> + What a splendid lot they were! What a life it was! So much joy in the + heart of so much beauty! . . . Cambridge! + </p> + <p> + As he crossed the white court the strains of "Egypt" came, like a + farewell, through the tumbling snow. + </p> + <p> + There was still a thing that he must do. He went to say good-bye to + Bunning. He thought with surprise as he climbed the stairs that this was + the first time that he'd ever been to Bunning's room. It had always been + Bunning who had come to him. He would always see that picture—-Bunning + standing, clumsily, awkwardly in the doorway. Poor Bunning! + </p> + <p> + When Olva came in he was sitting in a very old armchair, staring into the + fire, his hair on end and his tie above his collar. Olva watched him for a + moment, the face, the body, everything about him utterly dejected; the + sound of Olva's entrance did not at once rouse him. When at last he saw + who it was he started up, his face flushing crimson. + </p> + <p> + "You!" he cried. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said Olva, "I've come to tell you that everything's all right." + </p> + <p> + For a moment light touched Bunning's eyes, then slowly he shook his head. + </p> + <p> + "Things can't be all right. It's gone much too far." + </p> + <p> + "My dear Bunning, I've seen Craven. I've told him. I assure you that all + is well." + </p> + <p> + "You told him?" + </p> + <p> + "Everything. That I killed Carfax—he knew it, of course, long ago. + He went fast asleep at the end of it." + </p> + <p> + Bunning shook his head again, wearily. "It's all no good. You're saying + these things to comfort me. Even if Craven didn't do anything he wouldn't + let you marry his sister now. That's more important than being hung." + </p> + <p> + "If it hadn't been for you," Olva said slowly, "I should have gone on + wriggling. You've made me come out into the open. 'I'm going to tell Miss + Craven everything to-morrow." + </p> + <p> + "What will she do?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't know. She'll do the right thing. After that I'm going away." + </p> + <p> + "Going away?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes. I want to think about things. I've never thought about anything + except myself. I'm going to tramp it home, and after that I shall find out + what I'm going to do." + </p> + <p> + "And Miss Craven?" + </p> + <p> + "I shall come back to her one day—when I'm fit for it—or + rather, <i>if</i> I'm fit for it. But that's enough about myself. I only + wanted to tell you, Bunning, before I go that I shall never forget your + telling Craven. You're lucky to have been able to do so fine a thing. We + shall meet again later on—I'll see to that." + </p> + <p> + Bunning, his whole body strung to a desperate appeal, caught Olva's hand. + "Take me with you, Dune. Take me with you. I'll be your servant—anything + you like. I'll do anything if you'll let me come. I won't be a nuisance—I'll + never talk if you don't want me to—I'll do everything you tell me—only + let me come. You're the only person who's ever shown me what I might do. I + might be of use if I were with you—otherwise——" + </p> + <p> + "Rot, Bunning. You've got plenty to do here. I'm no good yet for anybody. + One day perhaps we'll meet again. I'll write to you. I promise not to + forget you. How could I? and one day I'll come back—-" + </p> + <p> + Bunning moved away, his head banging. "You must think me an awful fool—of + course you do. I am, I suppose. I'd be awful to be with for long at a time—of + course I see that. But I don't know what to do. If I go home and tell them + I'm not going to be a parson it'll be terrible. They'll all be at me. Not + directly. They won't say anything, but they'll have people to talk to me. + They'll fill the house—they won't spare any pains. And then, at + last, being all alone, I shall give in. I know I shall, I'm not clever or + strong. And I shall be ordained—and then it'll be hell. I can see it + all. You came into my life and made it all different, and now you're going + out of it again and it will be worse than ever—-" + </p> + <p> + "I won't go out of it," said Olva. "I'll write if you'd like—and + perhaps we'll meet. I'll be always your friend. And—look here—I'll + tell Margaret—Miss Craven—about you, and she'll ask you to go + and see her, and if you two are friends it'll be a kind of alliance + between all of us, won't it?" + </p> + <p> + Bunning was happier—"Oh, but she'll think me such an ass!" + </p> + <p> + "Oh no, she won't, she's much too clever, And, Bunning, don't let yourself + be driven by people. Stick to the thing you want to do—you'll find + something all right. Just go on here and wait until you're shown. Sit with + your ears open——" + </p> + <p> + Bunning filled his mouth with toast. "If you'll write to me and keep up + with me I'll do anything." + </p> + <p> + "And one thing—Don't tell any one I'm going. I shall just slip out + of college early the day after to-morrow. I don't want any one to know. + It's nobody's affair but mine." + </p> + <p> + Then he held out his hand—"Good-bye, Bunning, old man." + </p> + <p> + "Good-bye," said Bunning. + </p> + <p> + When Olva had gone he sat down by the fire again, staring. + </p> + <p> + Some hours afterwards he spoke, suddenly, aloud: "I can stand the lot of + them now." + </p> + <p> + Then he went to bed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI — OLVA AND MARGARET + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> + <p> + On the next evening the sun set with great splendour. The frost had come + and hardened the snow and all day the sky bad been a pale frozen blue, + only on the horizon fading into crocus yellow. + </p> + <p> + The sun was just vanishing behind the grey roofs when Olva went to Rocket + Road. All day he had been very busy destroying old letters and papers and + seeing to everything so that he should leave no untidiness nor + carelessness behind him. Now it was all over. To-morrow morning, with + enough money but not very much, and with an old rucksack that he had once + had on a walking tour, he would set out. He did not question this decision—he + knew that it was what he was intended to do—but it was the way that + Margaret would take his confession that would make that journey hard or + easy. + </p> + <p> + He did not know—that was the surprising thing—how she would + take it. He knew her so little. He only knew that he loved her and that + she would do, without flinching, the thing that she felt was right. Oh! + but it would be difficult! + </p> + <p> + The house, the laurelled drive, the little road, the distant moor and wood—these + things had to-night a gentle air. Over the moor the setting sun flung a + red flame; the woods burned black; the laurels were heavy with snow and a + robin hopped down the drive as Olva passed. + </p> + <p> + He found Margaret in the drawing-room, and here, too, he fancied that + there was more light and air than on other days. + </p> + <p> + When the old woman had left the room he suddenly caught Margaret to him + and kissed her as though he would never let her go. She clung to him with + her hands. Then he stood gravely away from her. + </p> + <p> + "There," he said, "that is the last time that I may kiss you before I have + told you what it is that I have come here to say. But first may I go up to + your mother for a moment?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," Margaret said, "if you will not be very long. I do not think that I + can have much more patience." Then she added more slowly, gazing into his + face, "Rupert said last night that you would have something to tell me + to-day. I have been waiting all day for you to come. But Rupert was his + old self last night, and he talked to mother and has made her happy again. + Oh! I think that everything is going to be right!" + </p> + <p> + "I will soon come down to you," he said. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Craven's long dark room was lit by the setting sun; beyond her + windows the straight white fields lifted shining splendour to the stars + already twinkling in the pale sky. Candles were lit on a little black + table by her sofa and the fire was red deep in its cavernous setting. + </p> + <p> + He stood for a moment in the dim room facing the setting sun, and the + light of the fire played about his feet and the pale glow that stole up + into the evening from the snowy fields touched his face. + </p> + <p> + She knew as she looked at him that something bad given him great peace. + </p> + <p> + "I've come to say good-bye," he said. Then he sat down by her side. + </p> + <p> + "No," she said, smiling, "you mustn't go. We want you—Rupert and + Margaret and I. . . ." Then softly, as though to herself, she repeated the + words, "Rupert and Margaret and I." + </p> + <p> + "Dear Mrs. Craven, one day I will come back. But tell me, Rupert spoke to + you last night?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, he has made me so very happy. Last night we were the same again as + we used to be, and even, I think, more than we have ever been. Rupert is + growing up." + </p> + <p> + "Yes—Rupert is growing up. Did he tell you why he had, during these + weeks, been so strange and unhappy?" + </p> + <p> + "No, he gave me no real explanation. But I think that it was the terrible + death of his friend Mr. Carfax—I think that that had preyed upon his + mind." + </p> + <p> + "No, Mrs. Craven, it was more than that. He was unhappy because he knew + that it was I that had killed Carfax." + </p> + <p> + He saw a little movement pass over her—her hand trembled against her + dress. For some time they sat together there in silence, and the red sun + slipped down behind the fields; the room was suddenly dark except for the + yellow pool of light that the candles made and for the strange gleam by + the window that came from the snow. + </p> + <p> + At last she said, "Now I understand—now I understand." + </p> + <p> + "I killed him in anger—it was quite fair. No one had any idea except + Rupert, but everything helped to show him that it was I. When he saw that + I loved Margaret he was very unhappy. He saw that we had some kind of + understanding together and he thought that I had told you and that you + sympathize with me. I am going down now to tell Margaret." + </p> + <p> + "Poor, poor Olva." It was the first time that she had called him by his + Christian name. She took his hand. "Both of us together—the same + thing. I have paid, God knows I have paid, and soon, I hope, it will be + over. But your life is before you." + </p> + <p> + He looked out at the evening fields. "I'm going down now to tell Margaret. + And tomorrow I shall set out. I will not come back to Margaret until I + know that I am cleared—but I want you, while I am away, to think of + me sometimes and to talk of me sometimes to Margaret. And one day, + perhaps, I shall know that I may come back." + </p> + <p> + She put her thin hands about his head and drew it down to her and kissed + him. + </p> + <p> + "There will never be a time when you are not in my mind," she said. "I + love you as though you were my own son. I had hoped that you would be here + often, but now I see that it is right for you to go. I know that Margaret + will wait for you. Meanwhile an old woman loves you." + </p> + <p> + He kissed her and left her. + </p> + <p> + At the door through the dark room he heard her thin voice: "May God bless + you and keep you." + </p> + <p> + He went to perform his hardest task. + </p> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> + <p> + It was the harder in that for a little while he seemed to be left + absolutely alone. The room was dark save for the leaping light of the fire + in the deep stone fireplace, and as he saw Margaret standing there waiting + for him, desperately courageous, he only knew that he loved her so badly + that, for a little while, he could only stand there staring at her, + twisting his hands together, speechless. + </p> + <p> + "Well," at last she said. "Come and sit down and tell me all about it." + But her voice trembled a little and her eyes were wide, frightened, + begging him not to hurt her. + </p> + <p> + He sat down near her, before the fire, and she instinctively, as though + she knew that this was a very tremendous matter, stood away from him, her + hands clasped together against her black dress. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly now, before he spoke, he realized what it would mean to him if + she could not forgive what he had done. He had imagined it once before—the + slow withdrawal of her eyes, the gradual tightening of the lips, the + little instinctive movement away from him. + </p> + <p> + If he must go out into the world, having lost her, he thought that he + could never endure, God or no God, the long dreary years in front of him. + </p> + <p> + At last he was brave: "Margaret—at first I want you to know that I + love you with all my heart and soul and body; that nothing that can ever + happen to me can ever alter that love—that I am yours, entirely, + always. And then I want you to know that I am not worthy to love you, that + I ought never to have asked you to love me, that I ought to have gone away + the first time that I saw you." + </p> + <p> + She made a little loving, protecting movement towards him with her hands + and then let them drop against her dress again. + </p> + <p> + "I ought never to have loved you—because—only a day or two + before I met you—I had killed Carfax, Rupert's friend." + </p> + <p> + The words as they fell seemed to him like the screams that iron bolts give + as a gate is barred. + </p> + <p> + He whispered slowly the words again: "I killed Carfax"—and then he + covered his eyes with his hands so that he might not see her face. + </p> + <p> + The silence seemed eternal—and she had made no movement. To fill + that silence he went on desperately— + </p> + <p> + "I had always hated him—there were many reasons—and one day we + met in Sannet Wood, quarrelled, and I hit him. The blow killed him. I + don't think I meant to kill him, but I wasn't sorry afterwards—I + have never felt remorse for <i>that</i>. There have been other things. . . + . + </p> + <p> + "Soon afterwards I met you—I loved you at once—you know that I + did—and I could not tell you. Oh! I tried—I struggled, pretty + poor struggling—but I could not. I thought that it was all over, + that he was dead and nobody knew. But God was wiser than that—Rupert + knew. He suspected and then he grew more sure, and at last he was quite + certain. Yesterday, after the football match, I told him and I promised + him that I would tell you . . . and I have told you." + </p> + <p> + Silence again—and then suddenly there was movement, and there were + arms about him and a voice in his ear—"Poor, poor Olva . . . dear + Olva . . . how terrible it must have been!" + </p> + <p> + He could only then catch her and hold her, and furiously press her against + him. "Oh, my dear, my dear—you don't mind!" + </p> + <p> + They stayed together, like that, for a long time. + </p> + <p> + He could not think clearly, but in the dim recesses of his mind he saw + that they had all—Mrs. Craven, Margaret, Rupert—taken it in + the same kind of way. Could it be that Margaret and Rupert living, + although unconsciously, in the shadow all their lives of just this crime, + breathing the air of it, and breathing it too with the other air of love + and affection—that they had thus, all unknowing, been quietly + prepared? + </p> + <p> + Or had they, each of them, their especial reason for excusing it? Mrs. + Craven from her great knowledge, Rupert from his great weariness, Margaret + from her great love? + </p> + <p> + At last Margaret got up and sat down in a chair away from him. + </p> + <p> + "Olva dear, you ought to have told me. If we had married and you had not + told me—-" + </p> + <p> + "I was so terribly afraid of losing you." + </p> + <p> + "But it gives me now," her voice was almost triumphant, "something to + share with you, something to help you in, something to fight with you. Now + I can show you how much I love you. + </p> + <p> + "How could you have supposed that I would mind? Do you think that a woman, + if she loves a man, cares for anything that he may do? If you had killed a + hundred men in Sannet Wood I would have helped you to bury them. The thing + that a woman demands most of love is that she may prove it. I know that + murder has a dreadful sound—but to meet your enemy face to face, to + strike him down because you hated him—" Her voice rose, her eyes + flashed—she raised her arms—"You must pay for it, Olva—but + we shall pay together." + </p> + <p> + He knew now, as he watched her, that he had a harder thing to do than he + had believed possible. + </p> + <p> + "No," he said, and his eyes could not face hers, "we can't pay together—I + must go alone." + </p> + <p> + She laughed a little. "How can you go alone if we are together?" + </p> + <p> + "We shall not be together. I go away, alone, to-morrow." + </p> + <p> + He knew that her eyes were then, very slowly, searching his face. She + said, gently, after a moment's pause, "Tell me, Olva, what you mean. Of + course we are going together." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, it is so hard for me!" He was fighting now as he had never fought. + Why not, even at this last moment, in spite of yesterday, defy God and + stay with her and keep her? In that moment of hesitation he suffered so + that the sweat came to his forehead and his eyes were filled with pain and + then were suddenly tired and dull. + </p> + <p> + But he came out, and seemed now to stand above the room and look down on + his body and her body and to be filled with a great pity for them both. + </p> + <p> + "Margaret dear, it's very hard for me to tell you. Will you be patient + with me and let me put things as clearly as I can—as <i>I</i> see + them?" + </p> + <p> + She burst out, "Olva, you mustn't leave me, I—-" Then she used all + her strength to bring control. Very quietly she ended—"Yes, Olva, + tell me everything." + </p> + <p> + "It is so difficult because it is about God, and we all of us feel, and + rightly I expect, that it is priggish to talk about God at all. And then I + don't know whether I can give you everything as it happened because it was + all so unsubstantial and at the end of it any one might say 'But this is + nothing—nothing at all. You've been hysterical, nervous—that's + the meaning of it. You've nothing to show.' And yet if all the world were + to say that to me I should still have no doubt. I know, as I know that we + are sitting here, as I know that I love you, that what I say is true." + </p> + <p> + She brought her chair close to him and then put her band in his and + waited. + </p> + <p> + "After I had killed Carfax—after his body had fallen and the wood + was very silent, I was suddenly conscious of God. I can't explain that + better. I can only say that I knew that some one had watched me, I knew + that the world would never be the same place again because some one had + watched me, and I knew that it was not because I had done wrong, but + because I had put myself into a new set of conditions that life would be + different now. I knew these things, and I went back to College. + </p> + <p> + "I had never thought about God before, never at all. I had been entirely + heathen. Now I was sure of His existence in the way that one is sure of + wood when one touches it or water when one drinks it. + </p> + <p> + "But I did not know at all what kind of God He was. I went to a Revival + meeting, but He was not there. He was not in the College Chapel. He was + not in any forms or ceremonies that I could discover. He might choose to + appear to other men in those different ways but not to me. Then a fellow, + Lawrence, told me about some old worship—-Druids and their altars—but + He was not there. And all those days I was increasingly conscious that + there was some one who would not let me alone. It fastened itself in my + mind gradually as a Pursuit, and it seemed to me too that, as the days + passed, I began slowly to understand the nature of the Pursuer—that + He was kind and tender but also relentless, remorseless. I was frightened. + I flung myself into College things—games and every kind of noise + because I was so afraid of silence. And all the time some one urged me to + obedience. That was all that He demanded, that I should be passive and + obey His orders. I would have given in, I think, very soon, but I met + you." + </p> + <p> + Her hand tightened in his and then, because he felt that her body was + trembling, he put his arm round her and held her. + </p> + <p> + "I knew then when I loved you that I was being urged, by this God, to + confess everything to you. I became frightened; I should have trusted you, + but it was so great a risk. You were all that I had and if I lost you life + would have gone too. Those aren't mere words. . . . I struggled, I tried + every way of escape. And then everything betrayed me. Rupert began to + suspect, then to be sure. Whether I flung myself into everything or hid in + my room it was the same—God came closer and closer. It was a + perfectly real experience and I could see Him as a great Shadow—not + unkind, loving me, but relentless. Then the day came that I proposed to + you and I fainted. I knew then that I was not to be allowed so easy a + happiness. Still I struggled, but now God seemed to have shut off all the + real world and only left me the unreal one—and I began to be afraid + that I was going mad." + </p> + <p> + She suddenly bent down and kissed him; she stayed then, until he had + finished, with her head buried in his coat. + </p> + <p> + "It wasn't any good—I knew all the time that it could only end one + way. + </p> + <p> + "Everything betrayed me, every one left me. I thought every moment that + Rupert would tell me. Then, one night when I was hardly sane, I told a + man, Bunning—a queer odd creature who was the last kind of person to + be told. He, in a fit of mad self-sacrifice, told Rupert that <i>he'd</i> + killed Carfax, and then of course it was all over. + </p> + <p> + "I suddenly yielded. It was as though God caught me and held me. I saw + Him, I heard Rim—yesterday—in the middle of the football. I + know that it was so. After that there could be only one thing—Obedience. + I knew that I must tell you. I have told you. I know, too, that I must go + out into the world, alone, and work out my duty . . . and then, oh! then, + I will come back." + </p> + <p> + When he had finished, on his shoulder he seemed to feel once more a hand + gently resting. + </p> + <p> + At last she raised her head, and clutching his hand as though she would + never let it go, spoke:— + </p> + <p> + "Olva, Olva, I don't understand. I don't think I believe in any God. And, + dear, see—it is all so natural. Thinking about what you had done, + thinking of it all alone, preyed on your nerves. Because Rupert suspected + you made it worse. You imagined things—everything. That is all—Olva, + really that is all." + </p> + <p> + "Margaret, don't make it harder for both of us. I must go. There is no + question. I don't suppose that any one can see any one else's spiritual + experiences—one must be alone in that. Margaret dear, if I stayed + with you now—if we married—the Pursuit would begin again. God + would hold me at last—and then one day you would find that I had + gone away—I would have been driven—there would be terror for + both of us then." + </p> + <p> + She slipped on to her knees and caught his hands. + </p> + <p> + "This is all unreal—utterly unreal. But our love for each other, + that is the only thing that can matter for either of us. You have lived in + your thoughts these weeks, imagined things, but think of what you do if + you leave me. You are all I have—you have become my world—I + can't live, I can't live, Olva, without you." + </p> + <p> + "I must go. I must find what God is." + </p> + <p> + "But listen, dear. You come to me to confess something. You find that what + you have done matters nothing to me. You say that you love me more than + ever, and, in the same moment, that you are going to leave me. Is it fair + to me? You give no reason. You do not know where you are going or what you + intend to do. You can give no definite explanation." + </p> + <p> + "There is no explanation except that by what I did in Sannet Wood that + afternoon I put myself out of touch with human society until I had done + something <i>for</i> human society. God has been telling me for many days + that I owe a debt. I have tried to avoid paying that debt. I tried to + escape Him because I knew that he demanded that I must pay my debt before + I could come to you. I see this as clearly as I saw yesterday the high + white clouds above the football field. God now is as real to me as you + are. It is as though for the rest of my life I must live in a house with + two persons. We cannot all live together until certain conditions are + granted. I go to make those conditions possible. Because I have broken the + law I am an outlaw. I am impelled to win my way back to citizenship again. + God will show me." + </p> + <p> + "But this is air—all nerves. God is nothing. God does not exist." + </p> + <p> + "God <i>does</i> exist. I must work out His order and then I will come + back to you." + </p> + <p> + She began to be frightened. She caught his coat in her hands, and + desperately pleaded. Then she saw his white set face, and the way that his + hands gripped the chair, and it was as though she had suddenly found + herself alone in the room. + </p> + <p> + "Olva, don't leave me, don't leave me, Olva. I can't live without you. I + don't care what you've done. I'll bear everything with you. I'll come away + with you. I'll do anything if only you will let me be with you." + </p> + <p> + "No, I must go alone." + </p> + <p> + "But it can't matter—it can't matter. I'm so unimportant. You shall + do what you feel is your duty—only let me be there." + </p> + <p> + "No, I must go alone." + </p> + <p> + She began to cry, bitter, miserable, sobbing, sitting on the floor, away + from him. Her crying was the only sound in the room. + </p> + <p> + He bent and touched her—"Margaret dear—you make it so hard." + </p> + <p> + At last, in that strange beautiful way that she had, control seemed + suddenly to come to her; she stood up and looked as though she had, in + that brief moment, lived a thousand years of sorrow. + </p> + <p> + "You will come back?" + </p> + <p> + "I swear that I will come back to you." + </p> + <p> + "I—I—will—wait for you." + </p> + <p> + There, in the dim, unreal room, as they had stood once before, now, + standing, they were wrapt together. They were very young to feel such + depths of tragedy, to touch such heights of beauty. They were a long time + there together. + </p> + <p> + "Margaret darling, you know that I will come back." + </p> + <p> + "I know that you will come back." + </p> + <p> + "Olva!" + </p> + <p> + "Margaret!" + </p> + <p> + He left her. + </p> + <p> + Then, standing with outstretched arms, alone there, she who had but now + denied the Pursuer, cried to the dark room— + </p> + <p> + "God, God—send him back to me!" + </p> + <p> + Some one promised her. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII — FIRST CHAPTER + </h2> + <p> + The sun was rising, hard and red, over Sannet Wood and the white frozen + flats, when Olva Dune set out. . . . + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Prelude to Adventure, by Hugh Walpole + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE *** + +***** This file should be named 19085-h.htm or 19085-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/0/8/19085/ + +Etext produced by Andrew Hodson + +HTML file produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Prelude to Adventure + +Author: Hugh Walpole + +Release Date: August 20, 2006 [EBook #19085] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE *** + + + + +Produced by Andrew Hodson + + + + + +Transcriber's Note: Errors found: A name is sometimes spelt 'Med. Tetloe' and +sometimes 'Med-Tetloe' & Cleopatre maybe wrong. So that just 7 bit text +is used the accented & ligatured words are repeated here with numbers +for codepages 437 & 850: Acute e 130 e: blase, chasmed, Cleopatre, elite +& unperturbed i with 2 (or 3) dots 139 i: dais & dais ea ligature 145 +ae: mediaeval u with 2 dots 129 ue: Duerer's 'The Hound of Heaven' poem, The +letter to father and separate 'All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me.' +quote are in a smaller font. + + + +THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE + +BY HUGH WALPOLE AUTHOR OF "MR. PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL" + + +MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED, ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON + +_New Edition September_,1919 + +TO MY FRIEND R. A. STREATFIELD + + + + CONTENTS + + CHAP. + I. LAST CHAPTER + + II. BUNNING + + III. THE BODY COMES TO TOWN + + IV. MARGARET CRAVEN + + V. STONE ALTARS + + VI. THE WATCHERS + + VII. TERROR + + VIII. REVELATION OF BUNNING (I) + + IX. REVELATION OF BUNNING (II) + + X. CRAVEN + + XI. FIFTH OF NOVEMBER + + XII. LOVE TO THE "VALSE TRISTE" + + XIII. MRS. CRAVEN + + XIV. GOD + + XV. PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY + + XVI. OLVA AND MARGARET + + XVII. FIRST CHAPTER + + + + Up vistaed hopes I sped; + And shot, precipitated Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, + From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. + But with unhurrying chase, + And unperturbed pace, + Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, + They beat--and a Voice beat + More instant than the Feet-- + All things betray thee, who betrayest Me. + + The Hound of Heaven. + + 16 HALLAM STREET, + _October_ 11, 1911. + + + + +CHAPTER I + +LAST CHAPTER + +1 + +"There _is_ a God after all." That was the immense conviction that +faced him as he heard, slowly, softly, the leaves, the twigs, settle +themselves after that first horrid crash which the clumsy body had made. + +Olva Dune stood for an instant straight and stiff, his arms heavily at +his side, and the dank, misty wood slipped back once more into silence. +There was about him now the most absolute stillness: some trees dripped +in the mist; far above him, on the top of the hill, the little path +showed darkly--below him, in the hollow, black masses of fern and weed +lay heavily under the chill November air--at his feet there was the +body. + +In that sudden after silence he had known beyond any question that might +ever again arise, that there was now a God--God had watched him. + +With grave eyes, with hands that did not tremble, he surveyed and then, +bending, touched the body. He knelt in the damp, heavy soil, tore open +the waistcoat, the shirt; the flesh was yet warm to his touch--the +heart was still. Carfax was dead. + +It had happened so instantly. First that great hulking figure in front +of him, the sneering laugh, that last sentence, "Let her rot . . . my +dear Dune, your chivalry does you credit." Then that black, blinding, +surging rage and the blow that followed. He did not know what he had +intended to do. It did not matter--only in the force that there had been +in his arm there had been the accumulated hatred of years, hatred that +dated from that first term at school thirteen years ago when he had +known Carfax for the dirty hypocrite that he was. He could not stay now +to think of the many things that had led to this climax. He only knew +that as he raised himself again from the body there was with him no +feeling of repentance, no suggestion of fear, only a grim satisfaction +that he had struck so hard, and, above all, that lightning certainty +that he had had of God. + +His brain was entirely alert. He did not doubt, as he stood there, that +he would be caught and delivered and hanged. He, himself, would take no +steps to prevent such a catastrophe. He would leave the body there as it +was: to-night, to-morrow they would find it,--the rest would follow. He +was, indeed, acutely interested in his own sensations. Why was it that +he felt no fear? Where was the terror that followed, as he had so often +heard, upon murder? Why was it that the dominant feeling in him should +be that at last he had justified his existence? In that furious blow +there had leapt within him the creature that he had always been--the +creature subdued, restrained, but always there--there through all +this civilized existence; the creature that his father was, that his +grandfather, that all his ancestors, had been. He looked down. The +hulking body that had been Carfax made a hollow in the wet and broken +fern. The face was white, stupid, the cheeks hanging fat, horrible, the +eyes staring. One leg was twisted beneath the body. Still in the air +there seemed to linger that startled little cry--"Oh!"--surprise, +wonder--and then fading miserably into nothing as the great body fell. + +Such a huge hulking brute; now so sordid and useless, looking at last, +after all these years, the thing that it ought always to have looked. +Some money had rolled from the pocket and lay shining amongst the fern. +A gold ring glittered on the white finger, seeming in the heart of that +silence the only living note. + +Then Olva remembered his dog--where was he? He turned and saw the fox +terrier down on all fours amongst the fern, motionless, his tongue out, +his eyes gazing with animal inquiry at his master. The dog was waiting +for the order to continue the walk. He seemed, in his passivity, merely +to be resting, a little exhausted perhaps by the heavy closeness of the +day, too indolent to nose amongst the leaves for possible adventure: +Olva looked at him. The dog caught the look and beat the grass with his +tail, soft, friendly taps to show that he only waited for orders. Then +still idly, still with that air of gentle amusement, the dog gazed at +the thing in the grass. He rose slowly and very delicately advanced a +few steps: for an instant some fear seemed to strike his heart for he +stopped suddenly and gazed into his master's face for reassurance. What +he saw there comforted him. Again he wagged his tail placidly and half +closed his eyes in sleepy indifference. + +Then Olva, without another backward glance, left the hollow, crashed +through the fern up the hill and struck the little brown path. Bunker, +the dog, pattered patiently behind him. + + +2 + +Olva Dune was twenty-three years of age. He was of Spanish descent, +and it was only within the last two generations that English blood had +mingled with the Dune stock. He was of no great height, slim and dark. +His hair was black, his complexion sallow, and on his upper lip he wore +a small dark moustache. His ears were small, his mouth thin, his chin +sharply pointed, but his eyes, large, dark brown, were his best feature. +They were eyes that looked as though they held in their depths the +possibility of tenderness. He walked as an athlete, there was no spare +flesh about him anywhere, and in his carriage there was a dignity that +had in it pride of birth, complete self-possession, and above all, +contempt for his fellow-creatures. + +He despised all the world save only his father. He had gone through +his school-life and was now passing through his college-life as a man +travels through a country that has for him no interest and no worth but +that may lead, once it has been traversed, to something of importance +and adventure. He was now at the beginning of his second year at +Cambridge and was regarded by every one with distrust, admiration, +excitement. His was one of the more interesting personalities at that +time in residence at Saul's. + +He had come with a historical scholarship and a great reputation as a +Three-quarter from Rugby. He was considered to be a certain First Class +and a certain Rugby Blue; he, lazily and indifferently during the course +of his first term, discouraged both these anticipations. He attended +no lectures, received a Third Class in his May examinations, and was +deprived of his scholarship at the end of his first year. He played +brilliantly in the Freshmen's Rugby match, but so indolently in the +first University match of the season that he was not invited again. Had +he played merely badly he would have been given a second trial, but +his superior insolence was considered insulting. He never played in +any College matches nor did he trouble to watch any of their glorious +conflicts. Once and again he produced an Essay for his Tutor that +astonished that gentleman very considerably, but when called before the +Dean for neglecting to attend lectures explained that he was studying +the Later Roman Empire and could not possibly attend to more than one +thing at a time. + +He was perfectly friendly to every one, and it was curious that, with +his air of contempt for the world in general, he had made no enemies. He +wondered at that himself, on occasions; he had always been supposed, for +instance, to be very good friends with Carfax. He had, of course, always +hated Carfax--and now Carfax was dead. + +The little crooked path soon left the dark wood and merged into the long +white Cambridge road. The flat country was veiled in mist, only, like +a lantern above a stone wall, the sun was red over the lower veils of +white that rose from the sodden fields. Some trees started like spies +along the road. Overhead, where the mists were faint, the sky showed the +faintest of pale blue. The long road rang under Olva's step--it would be +a frosty night. + +When the little wood was now a black ball in the mist Olva was suddenly +sick. He leant against one of the dark mysterious trees and was +wretchedly, horribly ill. Slowly, then, the colour came back to his +cheeks, his hands were once more steady, he could see again clearly. He +addressed the strange world about him, the long flat fields, the hard +white road, the orange sun. "That is the last time," he said aloud, "the +last weakness." + +He definitely braced himself to face life. There would not be much of +it--to-morrow he would be arrested: meanwhile there should be no more of +these illusions. There was, for instance, the illusion that the body was +following him, bounding grotesquely along the hard road. He knew that +again and again he turned his head to see whether anything were there, +and the further the little wood was left behind the nearer did the body +seem to be. He must not allow himself to think these things. Carfax was +dead--Carfax was dead--Carfax was dead. It was a good thing that Carfax +was dead. He had saved, he hoped, Rose Midgett--that at any rate he had +done; it was a good thing for Rose Midgett that he had killed Carfax. +He had, incidentally, no interest on his own account in Rose Midgett--he +scarcely knew her by sight--but it was pleasant to think that she would +be no longer worried. . . . + +Then there was that question about God. Now the river appeared, darkly, +dimly below the road, the reeds rising spire-like towards the faint blue +sky. That question about God--Olva had never believed in any kind of a +God. His father had defied God and the Devil time and again and had been +none the worse for it. And yet--here and there about the world people +lived and had their being to whom this question of God was a vital +question; people like Bunning and his crowd--mad, the whole lot of +them. Nevertheless there was something there that had great power. That +had, until to-day, been Olva's attitude, an amused superior curiosity. + +Now it was a larger question. There had been that moment after Carfax +had fallen, a moment of intense silence, and in that moment something +had spoken to Olva. It is a fact as sure as concrete, as though he +himself could remember words and gesture. There had been Something +there. . . . + +Brushing this for an instant aside, he faced next the question of his +arrest. There was no one, save his father, for whom he need think. He +would send his father word saying--"I have killed a beast--fairly--in +the open"--that would be all. + +He would not be hanged--poison should see to that. Dunes had murdered, +raped, tortured--never yet had they died on the gallows. + +And now, for the first time, the suspicion crossed his mind that +perhaps, after all, he might escape--escape, at any rate, that order of +punishment. Here on this desolate road, he had met no living soul; the +mists encompassed him and they had now swallowed the dripping wood and +all that it contained. It had always been supposed that he was good +friends with Carfax, as good friends as he allowed himself to be with +any one. No one had known in which direction he would take his walk; +he had come upon Carfax entirely by chance. It might quite naturally be +supposed that some tramp had attempted robbery. To the world at large +Olva could have had no possible motive. But, for the moment, these +thoughts were dismissed. It seemed to him just now immaterial whether he +lived or died. Life had not hitherto been so wonderful a discovery +that the making of it had been entirely worth while. He had no tenor of +disgrace; his father was his only court of appeal, and that old rocky +sinner, sitting alone with his proud spirit and his grey hairs, in his +northern fastness, hating and despising the world, would himself slay, +had he the opportunity, as many men of the Carfax kind as he could find. +He had no terror of pain--he did not know what that kind of fear was. +The Dunes had always faced Death. + +But he began, dimly, now to perceive that there were larger, crueller +issues before him than these material punishments. He had known since +he was a tiny child a picture by some Spanish painter, whose name he had +forgotten, that had always hung on the wall of the passage opposite his +bedroom. It was a large engraving in sharply contrasted black and white, +of a knight who rode through mists along a climbing road up into +the heart of towering hills. The mountains bad an active life in the +picture; they seemed to crowd forward eager to swallow him. Beside the +spectre horse that he rode there was no other life. The knight's face, +white beneath his black helmet, was tired and worn. About him was the +terror of loneliness. + +From his earliest years this idea of loneliness had pleasantly seized +upon Olva's mind. His father had always impressed upon him that the +Dunes had ever been lonely--lonely in a world that was contemptible. He +had always until now accepted this idea and found it confirmed on every +side. His six years at Rugby had encouraged him--he had despised, with +his tolerant smile, boys and masters alike; all insincere, all weak, all +to be used, if he wanted them, as he chose to use them. He had thought +often of the lonely knight--that indeed should be his attitude to the +world. + +But now, suddenly, as the scattered Cambridge houses with their dull +yellow lights began to creep stealthily through the mist, upon the road, +he knew for the first time that loneliness could be terrible. He +was hurrying now, although he had not formerly been conscious of it, +hurrying into the lights and comforts and noise of the town. There might +only be for him now a night and day of freedom, but, during that time, +he must not, he must not be alone. The patter of Bunker's feet beside +him pleased him. Bunker was now a fact of great importance to him. + +And now he could see further. He could see that he must always now, from +the consciousness of the thing that he had done, he alone. The actual +moment of striking his blow had put an impassable gulf between his soul +and all the world. Bodies might touch, hands might be grasped, +voices ring together, always now his soul must be alone. Only, that +Something--of whose Presence he had been, in that instant, aware--could +keep his company. They two . . . they two. . . . + +The suburbs of Cambridge had closed about him. Those dreary little +streets, empty as it seemed of all life, facing him sullenly with their +sodden little yellow lamps, shivering, grumbling, he could fancy, in +the chill of that November evening, eyed him with suspicion. He walked +through them now, with his shoulders back, his head up. He could fancy +how, to-morrow, their dull placidity would be wrung by the discovery of +the crime. The little wood would fling its secret into the eager lap +of these decrepit witches; they would crowd to their doors, chatter it, +shout it, pull it to pieces. "Body of an Undergraduate . . . Body of an +Undergraduate. . . ." + +He turned out of their cold silence over the bridge that spanned the +river, up the path that crossed the common into the heart of the town, +Here, at once, he was in the hubbub. The little streets were mediaeval +in their narrow space, in their cobbles, in the old black, fantastic +walls that hung above them. Beauty, too, on this November evening, shone +through the misty lamplight. Beauty in the dark purple of the evening +sky, beauty in the sudden vista of grey courts with lighted windows, +like eyes, seen through stone gateways. Beauty in the sudden golden +shadows of some corner shop glittering through the mist; beauty in the +overshadowing of the many towers that were like grey clouds in mid-air. + +The little streets chattered with people--undergraduates in Norfolk +jackets, grey flannel trousers short enough to show the brightest +of socks, walked arm in arm--voices rang out--men called across the +streets--hansoms rattled like little whirlwinds along the cobbles---many +bells were ringing--dark bodies, leaning from windows, gave uncouth +cries . . . over it all the mellow lamplight. + +Into this happy confusion Olva Dune plunged. He shook off from him, as +a dog shakes water from his back, the memory of that white mist-haunted +road. Once he deliberately faced the moment when he had been sick--faced +it, heard once again the dull, lumbering sound that the body had made as +it bundled along the road, and then put it from him altogether. Now for +battle . . . his dark eyes challenged this shifting cloud of life. + +He went round to the stable where Bunker was housed, chattered with the +blue-chinned ostler, and then, for a moment, was alone with the dog. How +much had Bunker seen? How much had he understood? Was it fancy, or did +the dog crouch, the tiniest impulse, away from him as he bent to pat +him? Bunker was tired; he relapsed on to his haunches, wagged his +tail, grinned, but in his eyes there seemed, although the lamplight was +deceptive, to be the faintest shadow of an apprehension. + +"Good old dog, good old Bunker." Bunker wagged his tail, but the tiniest +shiver passed, like a thought, through his body. + +Olva left him. + +As he passed through the streets he met men whom he knew. They nodded or +flung a greeting. How strange to think that to-morrow night they would +be speaking of him in low, grave voices as one who was already dead. "I +knew the fellow quite well, strange, reserved man--nobody really knew +him. With these foreigners, you know . . ." + +Oh! he could hear them! + +He passed through the gates of Saul's. The porter touched his hat. The +great Centre Court was shrouded in mist, and out of the white veil the +grey buildings rose, gently, on every side. There were lights now in +the windows; the Chapel bell was ringing, hushed and dimmed by the heavy +air. Boots rang sharply along the stone corridors. Olva crossed the +court towards his room. + +Suddenly, from the very heart of the mist, sharply, above the sound of +the Chapel bell, a voice called-- + +"Carfax! Carfax!" + +Olva stayed: for an instant the blood ran from his body, his knees +quivered, his face was as white as the mist. Then he braced himself--he +knew the voice. + +"Hullo, Craven, is that you?" + +"Who's that? . . . Can't see in this mist." + +"Dune." + +"Hullo, Dune. I say, do you know what's happened to Carfax?" + +"Happened? No--why?" + +"Well, I can't find him anywhere. I wanted to get him for Bridge. He +ought to be back by now." + +"Back? Where's he been?" + +"Going over to see some aunt or other at Grantchester--ought to be back +by now." + +An aunt?--No, Rose Midgett. + +"No--I've no idea--haven't seen him since yesterday." + +"Been out for a walk?" + +"Yes, just took my dog for a bit." + +"See you in Hall?" + +"Right--o!" + +The voice began again calling under the windows--"Carfax! Carfax!" + +Olva climbed the stairs to his rooms. + + + +CHAPTER II + +BUNNING + +1 + +He went into Hall. He sat amongst the particular group of his own year +who were considered the _elite_. There was Cardillac there, brilliant, +flashing Cardillac. There was Bobby Galleon, fat, good-natured, sleepy, +intelligent in an odd bovine way. There was Craven, young, ardent, +hail-fellow-well-met. There was Lawrence, burly back for the University +in Rugby, unintelligent, kind and good-tempered unless he were drunk. + +There were others. They all sat in their glory, noisily happy. Somewhere +in the distance on a raised dais were the Dons gravely pompous. Every +now and again word was brought that the gentlemen were making too much +noise. The Master might be observed drinking elaborately, ceremoniously +with some guest. Madden, the Service Tutor, flung his shrill treble +voice above the general hubbub-- + +"But, my dear Ross, if you had only observed---" + +"Where is Carfax?" came suddenly from Lawrence. He asked Craven, who +was, of course, the devoted friend of Carfax. Craven had large brown +eyes, a charming smile, a prominent chin, rather fat routed cheeks and +short brown hair that curled a little. He gave the impression of eager +good-temper and friendliness. To-night he looked worried. "I don't +know," he said, "I can't understand it. He said this morning that he'd +be here to-night and make up a four at Bridge. He went off to see an +aunt or some one at Grantchester!" + +"Perhaps," said Bobby Galleon gravely, "he had an exeat and has gone up +to town." + +"But he'd have said something--sure. And the porter hasn't seen him. He +would have been certain to know." + +Olva was never expected to talk much. His reserve was indeed rather +popular. The entirely normal and ordinary men around him appreciated +this mystery. "Rum fellow, Dune . . . nobody knows him." His high dark +colour, his dignity, his courtesy had about it something distinguished +and romantic. "He'll do something wonderful one day, _you_ bet. Why, if +he only chose to play up at footer there's nothing he couldn't do." + +Even the brilliant Cardillac, thin, dark, handsome leader of fashion and +society, admitted the charm. + +Now, however, Olva, looking up, quietly said-- + +"I expect his aunt's kept him to dinner. _He'll_ turn up." + +But of course he wouldn't turn up. He was lying in the heart of that +crushed, dripping fern with his leg doubled under him. It wasn't often +that one killed a man with one blow; the signet ring that he wore on the +little finger of his right hand--a Dune ring of great antiquity--must +have had something to do with it. + +He turned it round thoughtfully on his finger. Robert, an old, old +trembling waiter, said in a shaking voice-- + +"There's salmi of wild game, sir--roast beef." + +"Beef, please," Olva said quietly. + +He was considering now that all these men would to-morrow night have +only one thought, one idea. They would remember everything, the very +slightest thing that he had done. They would discuss it all from every +possible point of view. + +"I always knew he'd do something. . . ." He suddenly knew quite sharply, +as though a voice had spoken to him, that he could not endure this +any longer. There was gathering upon him the conviction that in a few +minutes, rising from his place, he would cry out to the hall--"I, +Olva Dune, this afternoon, killed Carfax. You will find his body in the +wood." He repeated the words to himself under his breath. "You will find +his body in the wood. . . ." "You will find . . ." + +He finished his beef very quietly and then got up. + +Craven appealed to him. "I say, Dune, do come and make a four--my rooms, +half-past eight--Lawrence and Galleon are the other two." + +Olva looked down at him with his grave, rather melancholy smile. + +"Afraid I can't to-night, Craven; must work." + +"Don't overdo it," Cardillac said. + +The eyes of the two men met. Olva knew that Cardillac--"Cards" as he was +to his friends, liked him; he himself did not hate Cardillac. He was the +only man in the College for whom he had respect. They were both of them +demanding the same thing from the world. They both of them despised +their fellow-creatures. + +Olva, climbing the stairs to his room, stood for a moment in the dark, +before he turned on the lights. He spoke aloud in a whisper, as though +some one were with him in the room. + +"This won't do," he said. "This simply won't do. Your nerves are going. +You've only got a few hours of it. Hold on--Think of the beast that he +was. Think of the beast that he was." + +He walked slowly back to the door and turned on the electric lights. He +did not sport his oak--if people came to see him he would rather like +it: in some odd way it would be more satisfactory than that he should go +to see them--but people did not often come to see him. + +He laid out his books on the table and sat down. He had grown fond of +this room. The walls were distempered white. The ceiling was old and +black with age. There was a deep red-tiled fireplace. One wall had low +brown bookshelves. There were two pictures: one an Around reprint of +Matsys' "Portrait of Aegidius"--that wise, kind, tender face; the other +an admirable photogravure of Durer's "Selbstbildnis." The books were +mainly to do with his favourite historical period--the Later Roman +Empire. There was some poetry--an edition of Browning, Swinburne's +_Poems and Ballads_, Ernest Dowson, Rossetti, Francis Thompson. There +was an edition of Hazlitt, a set of the _Spectator_, one or two novels, +_Henry Lessingham_ and _The Roads_ by Galleon, _To Paradise_ by Lester, +Meredith's _One of Our Conquerors_ and _Diana of the Crossways, The +Ambassadors_ and _Awkward Age_ of Henry James. + +On the mantelpiece above the fireplace there were three deep blue bowls, +the only ornaments in the room. Beyond the little diamond-paned windows, +beyond the dark mysteries of the Fellows' garden, a golden mist rose +from the lamps of the street, there were stars in the sky. + +He faced his books. For a quarter of an hour he saw before him the +hanging, baggy cheeks, the white, staring eyes, the glittering ring on +the weak finger. His hands began to tremble. . . . + +There was a timid knock on the door, and he was instantly sure that the +body had been found, and that they had come to arrest him. He stood +back from the door with his hand pressing on the table. It was almost a +relief to him that the summons had come so soon--it would presently all +be over. + +"Come in," he said, and gave one look at the golden mist, at the stars, +at the tender face of Aegidius. + +The door was opened slowly with fumbling hands, and there stood there +a large, fat, clumsy, shapeless creature, with a white face, a hooked +nose, an open, foolish mouth. + +The reaction was hysterical. To expect a summons to death and public +shame, to find--Bunning. Bunning--that soft, blithering, emotional, +religious, middle-class maniac--Bunning! "Soft-faced" Bunning, as he was +called, was the man of Olva's year in whom the world at large found most +entertainment. The son of some country clergyman, kicked and battered +through the slow, dreary years at some small Public School, he had come +up to Saul's with an intense, burning desire to make a mark. He was +stupid, useless at games, having only somewhere behind his fat ugly body +a longing to be connected with some cause, some movement, some person of +whom he might make a hero. + +He had, of course, within the first fortnight of his arrival, plunged +himself into dire disgrace. He had asked Lawrence, coming like a young +god from Marlborough, in to coffee; they had made him drunk and laughed +at his hysterical tears: in his desire for popularity he had held a +gathering in his room, with the original intention of coffee, cakes and +gentle conversation; the evening had ended with the arrival of all his +furniture and personal effects upon the grass of the court below his +windows. + +He had been despised by the Dons, buffeted and derided by his fellow +undergraduates. Especially had Carfax and Cardillac made his life a +burden to him, and whenever it seemed that there was nothing especial +to do, the cry arose, "Let's go and rag Bunning," and five minutes later +that fat body would tremble at the sound of many men climbing the wooden +stairs, at the loud banging on his wooden door, at the cry, "Hullo, +Bunning--we've come for some coffee." + +Then, towards the end of the first year, the Cambridge Christian Union +flung out its net and caught him. His attempt at personal popularity had +failed here as thoroughly as it had failed at school--now for his soul. +He found that the gentlemen of his college who were members of the +Christian Union were eager for his company. They did not laugh at his +conversation nor mock his proffered hospitalities. They talked to him, +persuaded him that his soul was in jeopardy, and carried him off during +part of the Long Vacation to the Norfolk Broads, where prayer-meetings, +collisions with other sea-faring craft, and tinned meats were the order +of the day. + +Olva had watched him with that amused incredulity that he so frequently +bestowed upon his fellow-creatures. How was this kind of animal, with +its cowardice, its stupidity, its ugliness, its uselessness, possible? +He had never spoken to Bunning, although he had once received a +note from him asking him to coffee--a piece of very considerable +impertinence. He had never assisted Carfax and Cards in their raiding +expeditions, but that was only because he considered such things +tiresome and childish. + +And now, behold, there in his doorway--incredible vision!--was the +creature--at this moment of--all others! + +"Come in," said Olva again. + +Bunning brought his large quivering body into the room and stood there, +turning his cap round and round in his hands. + +"Oh, I say---" and there he stopped. + +"Won't you sit down?" + +"No--thanks--I----" + +"In what way can I be of use to you?" + +"Oh! I say---" + +Senseless giggles, and then Bunning's mouth opened and remained open. +His eyes stared at Dune. + +"Well, what is it?" + +"Oh--my word--you know---" + +"Look here," said Olva quietly, "if you don't get on and tell me what +you want I shall do you some bodily damage. I've got work to do. Another +time, perhaps, when I am less busy----" + +Bunning was nearly in tears. "Oh, yes, I know--it's most awful +cheek--I----" + +There was a desperate silence and then he plunged out with--"Well, +you know, I--that is--we-I--sort of wondered whether, you know, you'd +care--not if you're awfully busy of course--but whether you'd care +to come and hear Med. Tetloe preach to-night. I know it's most awful +cheek----" He was nearly in tears. + +Olva kept an amazed silence. Life! What an amusing thing!--that he, with +his foot on the edge of disaster, death, should be invited by Bunning to +a revival meeting. He understood it, of course. Bunning had been sent, +as an ardent missionary is sent into the heart of West Africa, to invite +Olva to consider his soul. He was expecting, poor creature, to be kicked +violently down the twisting wooden stairs. On another occasion he would +be sent to Lawrence or Cardillac, and then his expectations would be +most certainly fulfilled. But it was for the cause--at least these +sinners should be given the opportunity of considering their souls. If +they refused to consider them, they must not complain if they find the +next world but little to their fancy. + +No one had ever attacked Olva before on this subject. His reserve had +been more alarming to the Soul Hunters than the coarse violence of a +Cardillac or a Carfax. And now Bunning--Bunning of all people in this +ridiculous world--had ventured. Well, there was pluck necessary for +that. Bunning, the coward, had done a braver thing than many more +stalwart men would have cared to do. There was bravery there! + +Moreover, why should not Olva go? He could not sit alone in his room, +his nerves would soon be too many for him. What did it matter? His last +evening of freedom should be spent as no other evening of his life had +been spent. . . . Moreover, might there not be something behind this +business? Might he not, perhaps, be shown to-night some clue to the +presence of that Power that had spoken to him in the wood? Through all +the tangled confusion of his thoughts, through the fear and courage +there ran this note-where was God? . . . God the only person to Whom he +now could speak, because God knew. + +Might not this idiot of a Bunning have been shown the way to the +mystery? + +"Yes," said Olva, smiling. "I'll come, if you won't mind sitting down +and smoking for a quarter of an hour, while I finish this--have a drink, +will you?" + +Bunning's consternation at Olva's acceptance was amusing. He dropped his +cap, stopped to pick it up, gasped. That Dune should really come! + +"You'll come?" he spluttered out. Never in his wildest imaginings had he +fancied such a thing. Dune, the most secret, reserved, mysterious man in +the college--Dune, whose sarcastic smile was considered more terrifying +than Lawrence's mailed fist--Dune, towards whom in the back of his mind +there had been paid that reverence that belongs only to those who are of +another world. + +Never, in anything that had happened to him, had Bunning been so +terrified as he had been by this visit to Dune. Watson Morley, the +Christian Union man, had insisted that it was his duty and therefore +he had come, but it had taken him ten minutes of agony to climb those +stairs. And now Dune had accepted. . . . + +The colour flooded his cheeks and faded again. He sat down clumsily in +a chair, felt for a pipe that he smoked unwillingly because it was the +manly thing to do, spurted some Apollinaris into a glass and over +the tablecloth, struck many matches vainly, dropped tobacco on to the +carpet. His heart was beating like a hammer! + +How men would stare when they saw him with Dune. In his heart was the +uneasy knowledge that had Dune proposed staying there in his rooms +and talking instead of going to Little St. Agnes and listening to the +Reverend Med. Tetloe, he would have stayed. This was not right, it was +not Christian. The world gaped below Bunning's heavy feet. + +At last Dune said: "I'm ready, let's go." They went out. + + +2 + +Little St. Agnes was apparently so named because it was the largest +church in Cambridge. It was of no ancient date, but it was grim, grey, +dark--admirably suited to an occasion like the present. Under the high +roof, lost in a grey cloud, resolving themselves into rows of white, +intense faces, sat hundreds of undergraduates. + +They were seated on uncomfortable, unstable chairs, and the noise of +their uneasy movements sent squeaks up and down the building as though +it had been a barn filled with terrified rats. + +Far in the distance, perched on a high pulpit, was a little white +figure--an old gaunt man with a bony hand and a grey beard. Behind him +again there was darkness. Only, in all the vast place, the white body +and rows of white faces raised to it. + +Olva and Bunning found seats in a corner. A slight soft voice said, with +the mysterious importance of one about to deliver an immense secret, +"You will look in the Mission Books, Hymn 330. 'Oh! for the arms of +Jesus.' I want you to think for a moment of the meaning of the words +before you sing." + +There followed the rustling of many pages and then a heavy, emotional +silence. Olva read the words and found them very sentimental, very bad +verse and rather unpleasantly fall of blood and pain. Every one stood; +the chairs creaked from one end of the building to the other, an immense +volume of sound rose to the roof. + +Olva felt that the entire church was seized with emotion. He saw that +Bunning's hand was trembling, he knew that many eyes were filled with +tears. For himself, he understood at once that that distant figure in +white was here to make a dramatic appeal--dramatic as certainly as the +appeal that a famous actor might make in London. That was his job-- +he was out for it---and anything in the way of silence or noise, of +darkness or light, that could add to the effect would be utilized. Olva +knew also that nine-tenths of the undergraduates were present there for +the same purpose. They wished to have their emotions played upon; they +wished also to be reassured about life; they wished to confuse this +dramatic emotion with a sincere desire for salvation. They wished, it is +true, to be good, but they wished, a great deal more, to be dramatically +stirred. + +Olva was reminded of the tensity of the atmosphere at a bull-fight that +he had once seen in Madrid. Here again was the same intensity. . . . + +He saw, therefore, in this first singing of the hymn, that this place, +this appeal, would be of no use in his own particular need. This +deliberate evoking of dramatic effect had nothing to do with that silent +consciousness of God. This place, this appeal, was fantastic, childish, +beside that event that had that afternoon sent Carfax into space. Let +these men hurry to the wood, let them find the sodden body, let them +face then the reality of Life. . . . + +Again, as before in Hall, he was tempted to rise and cry out: "I have +killed Carfax. I have killed Carfax. What of all your theories now?" +That trembling ass, Bunning, singing now at the top of his voice, +shaking with the fervour of it, let him know that he had brought a +murderer to the sacred gathering--again Olva had to concentrate all his +mind, his force, his power upon the conquest of his nerves. For a moment +it seemed as though he would lose all control; he stood, his knees +quivering beneath him--then strength came back to him. + +After the hymn the address. There was tense, rapt silence. The little +voice went on, soft, low, sweet, pleading, very clear. There must be +many men who had not yet found God. There were those, perhaps, in the +Church tonight who had not even thought about God. There were those +again who, maybe, had some crime on their conscience and did not know +how to get rid of it. Would they not come to Christ and ask His help? + +Stories were told. Story of the young man who cursed his mother, broke +his leg, and arrived home just too late to see her alive. Story of the +friend who died to save another friend, and how many souls were saved +by this self-sacrifice. Story of the Undergraduate who gambled and drank +and was converted by a barmaid and eventually became a Bishop. + +All these examples of God's guidance. Then, for an instant, there is a +great silence. The emotion is now beating in waves against the wall. The +faces are whiter now, hands are clenched, lips bitten. Suddenly there +leaps upon them all that gentle voice, now a trumpet. "Who is for the +Lord? Who is for the Lord?" + +Then gently again,--"Let us pray in silence for a few minutes." . . . +A great creaking of chairs, more intense silence. At last the voice +again--"Will those who are sure that they are saved stand up?" Dead +silence--no one moves. "Will those who wish to be saved stand up?" With +one movement every one--save only Olva, dark in his corner--stands up. +Bunning's eyes are flaming, his body is trembling from head to foot. + +"Christ is amongst you! Christ is in the midst of you!" + +Suddenly, somewhere amongst the shadows a voice breaks out--"Oh! my God! +Oh! my God!" Some one is crying--some one else is crying. All about the +building men are falling on to their knees. Bunning has crashed on to +his--his face buried in his hands. + +The little gentle voice again--"I shall be delighted to speak to any of +those whose consciences are burdened. If any who wish to see me would +wait. . . ." + +The souls are caught for God. + +Prayers followed, another hymn. Bunning with red eyes has contemplated +his sins and is in a glow of excited repentance. It is over. + +As Olva rose to leave the building he knew that this was not the path +for which he was searching. Not here was that terrible Presence. . . . +The men poured in a black crowd out into the night. As Olva stepped into +the darkness he knew that the terror was only now beginning for him. +Standing there now with no sorrow, remorse, repentance, nevertheless +he knew that all night, alone in his room, he would be fighting with +devils. . . . + +Bunning, nervously, stammered--"If you don't mind--I think I'm going +round for a minute." + +Olva nodded good-night. As he went on his way to Saul's, grimly, it +seemed humorous that "soft-faced" Bunning should be going to confess his +thin, miserable little sins. + +For him, Olva Dune, only a dreadful silence. . . . + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE BODY COMES TO TOWN + +1 + +And after all he slept, slept dreamlessly. He woke to the comfortable +accustomed voices of Mrs. Ridge, his bedmaker, and Miss Annett, her +assistant. It was a cold frosty morning; the sky showed through the +window a cloudless blue. + +He could hear the deep base voice of Mrs. Ridge in her favourite phrase: +"Well, I _don't_ think, Miss Annett. You won't get over me," and Miss +Annett's mildly submissive, "I should think _not_ indeed, Mrs. Ridge." + +Lying back in bed he surveyed with a mild wonder the fact that he had +thus, easily, slept. He felt, moreover, that that body had already, in +the division of to-day from yesterday, lost much of its haunting power. +In the clean freshness of the day, in the comfort of the casual +voices of the two women in the other room, in the smell of the coffee, +yesterday's melodrama seemed incredible. It had never happened; soon he +would see from his window Carfax's hulking body cross the court. No, +it was real enough, only it did not concern him. He watched it, as a +spectator, indifferent, callous. There _was_ a change in his life, but +it was a change of another kind. In the strange consciousness that he +now had of some vast and vital Presence, the temporal fact of the thing +that he had done lost all importance. There was something that he had +got to find, to discover. If--and the possibility seemed large now in +the air of this brilliant morning--he were, after all, to escape, +he would not rest until he had made his discovery. Some new life was +stirring within him. He wanted now to fling himself amongst men; he +would play football, he would take his place in the college, he would +test everything--leave no stone unturned. No longer a cynical observer, +he would be an adventurer . . . if they would let him alone. + +He got out of bed, stripped, and stood over his bath. The cold air beat +upon his skin; he rejoiced in the sense of his fitness, in the movement +of his muscles, in the splendid condition of his body. If this were to +be the last day of his freedom, it should at any rate be a splendid day. + +He had his bath, flung on a shirt and trousers and went into his +sitting-room, bright now with the morning sun, so that the blue bowls +and the red tiles shone, and even the dark face of Aegidius was lighted +with the gleam. + +Mrs. Ridge was short and stout, with white hair, a black bonnet, and the +deepest of voices. Her eagerness to deliver herself of all the things +that she wanted to say prevented full-stops and commas from being of any +use to her. Miss Annett was admirably suited as a companion, being long, +thin and silent, and intended by nature to be subservient to the more +masterful of her sex. With any man she was able easily to hold her own; +with Mrs. Ridge she was bending, bowed, humility. + +Mrs. Ridge grinned like a dog at the appearance of Olva. "Good mornin', +sir, and a nice frosty cold sort o' day it is with Miss Annett just +breakin' one of your cups, sir, 'er 'ands bein' that cold and a cup +bein' an easy thing to slip out of the 'and as you must admit yourself, +sir. Pore Miss Annett is _that_ distressed." + +Miss Annett did indeed look downcast. "I can't think---" she began. + +"It's quite all right, Miss Annett," said Olva. "I think it's wonderful +that you break the things as seldom as you do. The china was of no kind +of value." + +It was known in the college that Mr. Dune was the only gentleman of +whom Mrs. Ridge could be said to be afraid; she was proud of him and +frightened of him. She said to Miss Annett, when that lady made her +first appearance-- + +"And I can tell _you_, Miss Annett, that you need never 'ave no fear of +bein' introjuced to Royalty one of these days after bein' with that Mr. +Dune, because it puts you in practice, I can tell you, and a nice spoken +gentleman 'e is and _quiet_--never does a thing 'e shouldn't, but wicked +under it all I'll be bound. 'E's no chicken, you take it from me. Born +yesterday? I _don't_ think. . . ." + +The women faded away, and he was left to himself. After breakfast he +thought that he would write to his father and give him an account of +the thing that he had done; if he escaped suspicion he would tear it up. +Also he was determined on two things: one was that if he were accused +of the crime, he would at once admit everything; the other was that he +would do his utmost, until he was accused, to lead his life exactly as +though he were in no way concerned. He had now an odd assurance that it +was not by his public condemnation that he was intended to work out the +results of his act. Why was he so assured of that? What was it that was +now so strangely moving him? He faced the world, armed, resolved. It +seemed to him that it was important for him, now, to live. This was +the first moment of his life that existence had appeared to be of any +moment. He wanted time to continue his search. + +He wrote to his father--- + + MY DEAR FATHER,--- + + I have just been arrested on the charge of murdering an undergraduate +here called Carfax. It is quite true that I killed him. We met +yesterday, in the country, quarrelled, and I struck him, hitting him on +the chin. He fell instantly, breaking his neck. He was muck of the worst +kind. I had known him at Rugby; he was always a beast of the lowest +order. He was ruining a fellow here, taking his money, making him drink, +doing for him; also ruining a girl in a tobacconist's shop. All this was +no business of mine, but we had always loathed one another. I think when +I hit him I wanted to kill him. I am not, in any way, sorry, except that +suddenly I do not want to die. You are the only person in the world for +whom I care; you will understand. I have not disgraced the name; it was +killing a rat. I think that you had better not come to see me. I face it +better alone. We have gone along well together, you and I. I send you my +love. Good-bye, OLVA. + +As he finished it, he wondered, Would this be sent? Would they come for +him? Perhaps, at this moment, they had found the body. He put the letter +carefully in the pocket of his shirt. Then, suddenly, he was confronted +with the risk. Suppose that he were to be taken ill, to faint, to forget +the thing. . . . No, the letter must wait. They would allow him to +write, if the time came. + +He took the letter, flung it into the fire, watched it burn. He felt as +though, in the writing of it, he had communicated with his father. The +old man would understand. + + +2 + +About eleven o'clock Craven came to see him. Craven's father had been +a Fellow of Trinity and Professor of Chinese to the University. He had +died some five years ago and now the widow and young Craven's sister +lived in Cambridge. Craven had tried, during his first term, to make +a friend of Olva, but his happy, eager attitude to the whole world +had seemed crude and even priggish to Olva's reserve, and all Craven's +overtures had been refused, quietly, kindly, but firmly. Craven had not +resented the repulse; it was not his habit to resent anything, and as +the year had passed, Olva had realized that Craven's impetuous desire +for the friendship of the world was something in him perfectly natural +and unforced. Olva had discovered also that Craven's devotion to his +mother and sister was the boy's leading motive in life. Olva had only +seen the girl, Margaret, once; she had been finishing her education in +Dresden, and he remembered her as dark, reserved, aloof--opposite indeed +from her brother's cheerful good-fellowship. But for Rupert Craven this +girl was his world; she was obviously cleverer, more temperamental than +he, and he felt this and bowed to it. + +These things Olva liked in him, and had the boy not been so intimate +with Cardillac and Carfax, Olva might have made advances, Craven took a +man of the Carfax type with extreme simplicity; he thought his geniality +and physical strength excused much coarseness and vulgarity. He was +still young enough to have the Public School code--the most amazing +thing in the history of the British nation--and because Carfax bruised +his way as a forward through many football matches, and fought a +policeman on Parker's Piece one summer evening, Rupert Craven thought +him a jolly good fellow. Carfax also had had probably, at the bottom of +his dirty, ignoble soul, more honest affection for Craven than for +any one in the world. He had tried to behave himself in that ingenuous +youth's company. + +Now young Craven, disturbed, unhappy, anxious, stood in Olva's door. + +"I say, Dune, I hope I'm not disturbing you?" + +"Not a bit." + +"It's a rotten time to come." Craven came in and sat down. "I'm awfully +worried." + +"Worried?" + +"Yes, about Carfax. No one knows what's happened to him. He may have +gone up to town, of course, but if he did he went without an exeat. +Thompson saw him go out about two-thirty yesterday afternoon---was +going to Grantchester, because he yelled it back to Cards, who asked him +where he was off to--not been heard or seen since." + +"Oh, he's sure to be all right," Olva said easily. + +"He's up in town!" + +"Yes, I expect he is, but I don't know that that makes it any better. +There's some woman he's been getting in a mess with I know--didn't say +anything to me about it, but I heard of it from Cards." + +"Well--" Olva slowly lit his pipe--"there's something else too. He was +always in with a lot of these roughs in the town--stable men and the +rest. He used to get tips from them, he always said, and he's had awful +rows with some of them before now. You know what a temper he's got, +especially when he's been drinking at all. I shouldn't wonder if he +hadn't a fight one fine day and got landed on the chin, or something, +and left." + +"Oh! Carfax can look after himself all right. He's used to that kind of +company." + +Olva gazed, through the smoke of his pipe, dreamily into the fire. + +"You don't like him," Craven said suddenly. + +Olva turned slowly in his chair and looked at him. "Why! What makes you +say that?" + +"Something Carfax told me the other day. We were sitting one evening in +his room and he suddenly said to me, 'You know there _is_ one fellow in +this place who hates me like poison--always has hated me.' I asked him +who it was. He said it was you. I was immensely surprised, because I'd +always thought you very good friends--as good friends as you ever are +with any one, Dune. You don't exactly take any of us to your breast, you +know!" + +Dune smiled. "No, I think I've made a mistake in keeping so much alone. +It looks as though I thought myself so damned superior. But I assure you +Carfax was--is--quite wrong. We've been friendly enough all our days." + +"No," said Craven slowly, "I don't think you do like him. I've watched +you since. He's an awfully good fellow---really---at heart, you know. +I do hope things are all right. I sent off a wire to his uncle in town +half an hour ago to ask whether he were there. I don't know why I'm so +anxious. . . . It's all right, of course, but I'm uneasy." + +"Well, you're quite wrong about my disliking Carfax," Olva went on. "And +I think, altogether, it's about time I came off my perch. For one thing +I'm going to take up Rugger properly." + +"Oh, but that's splendid! Will you play against St. Martin's to-morrow? +It will relieve Lawrence like anything if you will. They've got Cards, +Worcester and Tundril, and they want a fourth Three badly. My word, +Dune, that would be splendid. We'll have you a Blue after all." + +"A little late for that, I'm afraid." + +"Not a bit of it. They keep on changing the Threes. Of course Cards is +having a good shot at it, but he isn't down against the Harlequins on +Saturday, and mighty sick he is about it." Craven got up to go. "Well, +I must be moving. Perhaps Carfax is back in his rooms. There may be word +of him anyway." + +Olva's pipe was out. The matchbox on the mantelpiece was empty. He felt +in his pocket for the little silver box that he always carried. It was +a box, with the Dune arms stamped upon it, that his father had given to +him. He had it, he remembered, yesterday when he set out on his walk. +He felt in all his pockets. These were the clothes that he was wearing +yesterday. Perhaps it was in his bedroom. He went in to look, and Craven +meanwhile watched him from the door. + +"What have you lost?" + +"Nothing." + +It was not in the bedroom. He felt in the overcoat that he had been +wearing. It was not there. + +"Nothing. It's a matchbox of mine--must have dropped out of a pocket." + +"Sorry. Daresay it will turn up. Well, see you later." + +Craven vanished; then suddenly put his head in through the door. + +"Oh, I say, Dune, come in to supper to-morrow night. Home I mean. My +sister's back from Dresden, and I'd like you to know her. I'm sure you'd +get on." + +"Thanks very much, I'd like to come." Olva stood in the centre of the +room, his hands clenched, his face white. He must have dropped the box +in the wood. He had it on his walk, he had lit his pipe. . . . Of course +they would find it. Here then was the end. Now for the first time +the horror of death came upon him, filing the room, turning it black, +killing the fire, the colour. His body was frozen with horror--already +his throat was choking, his eyes burning. The room swung slowly round +him, turning, turning. "They shan't take me. . . . They shan't take +me." His face was cruel, his mouth twisted. He saw the little silver box +lying there, open, exposed, upon the grass, glittering against the dull +green. He turned to the window with desperate, hunted eyes. Already he +fancied that he heard their steps upon the stair. He stood, his body +flung back, his hands pressing upon the table. "They shan't take me. +. . . They shan't take me." The door turned, slowly opened. It was Mrs. +Ridge with a duster. He gave a little sigh and rolled over, tumbling +back against the chair, unconscious. + + +3 + +"There, sir, now I _do_ 'ope as you'll be all right. Too much book-work, +_that's_ what it is, but if a doctor----" + +Olva was lying in his chair now, very pale, his eyes closed. + +"No, thank you, Mrs. Ridge. It's all right now, thank you--quite all +right. Yes, I'm ready for lunch--very silly of me." + +Mrs. Ridge departed to fetch the luncheon-dish from the College kitchens +and to tell the porter Thompson all about it on the way. "Pore young +gentleman, there 'e was as you might say white as a sheet all of a 'eap. +It gave me a turn _I_ can assure you, Mr. Thompson." + +His lunch was untasted. It seemed to him that he had now lost all power +of control. He could only face the inevitable fact of his approaching +capture. The sudden discovery of the loss of the matchbox had clanged +the facts about his ears with the discordant scream of closing gates. +He was captured, caught irretrievably, like a rat in a trap. He did +not wish to be caught like a rat in a trap. This was a free world. +Air, light, colour were about him on every side. To die, fighting, on +a hill-top, in a battle-field, that was one thing. To see them crowding +into his room, to be dragged into a dark airless place, to be caught by +the neck and throttled. . . . + +Mrs. Ridge cleared away the lunch with much shaking of the head. Olva +lay in his chair watching, with eyes that never closed nor stirred, the +crackling golden fire. Beyond the window the world was of blue steel. He +could fancy the still gleaming waters of the lake that stretched beyond +the grass lawns; he could fancy the red brick of the buildings that +clung like some frieze to the horizon. Along the stone courtyard rang +the heavy football boots of men going to the Upper Fields. He could +see their red and blue jerseys, their short blue trousers, their tight +stockings--the healthy swing of their bodies as they tramped. Men would +be going down to the river now--freshmen would be hearing reluctantly, +some of them with tears, the coarse and violent criticism of the +Third Year men who were tabbing them. All the world was moving. He was +surrounded, there in his silent room, with an amazing sense of life. He +seemed to realize, for the first time, what it was that Cambridge was +doing . . . all this physical life marching through the cold bright air, +strength, poetry, the great stir and enthusiasm of the Young Blood of +the world . . . and he, waiting for those steps on the stair, for those +grim faces in the open door. The world left him alone. As the afternoon +advanced, the tramp of the footballers was no longer heard, silence, +bound by the shining frost of the beautiful day, lay about the grey +buildings. Soon a melody of thrumming kettles would rise into the air, +in every glowing room tea would be preparing, the glorious luxury +of rest after stinging exercise would fill the courts with worship, +unconsciously driven, skywards, to the Powers of Health. And then, after +years of time, as it seemed, faintly through the closed windows at +last came the single note of St. Martin's bell. That meant that it was +quarter to five. Almost unconsciously he rose, put on his cap and gown +and passed through the twilit streets that were stealing now into a dim +glow under their misty lamps. The great chapel of St. Martin's, planted +like some couchant animal grey and mysterious against the blue of the +evening sky, flung through its windows the light of its many candles. +He found a seat at the back of the dark high-hanging ante-chapel. He +was alone there. Towards the inner chapel the white-robed choir moved +softly; for a moment the curtains were drawn aside revealing the misty +candle-light within; the white choir passed through--the curtains Fell +again, leaving Olva alone with the great golden trumpeting angels above +the organ for his company. + +Then great peace came upon him. Some one had taken his soul, softly, +with gentle hands, and was caring for it. He was suddenly freed from +responsibility, and as the soothing comfort stole about him he knew that +now he had simply to wait to be shown what it was that he must do. This +was not the strange indifference of yesterday, nor the physical strength +of the morning . . . peace, such peace as he had never before known, had +come to him. From the heart of the darkness up into the glowing beauty +of the high roof the music rose. It was Wednesday afternoon and the +voices were un accompanied. Soon the _Insanae et Vanae_ climbed in wave +after wave of melody, was caught, held, lingered in the air, softly died +again. + +Olva was detached--he saw his body beaten, imprisoned, tortured, killed. +But he was not there. He was riding heaven in quest of God. + + +4 + +At the gates of his college the news met him. He had been waiting for +it so long a time that now he had to act his horror. It seemed to him an +old, old story--this tale of a murder in Sannet Wood. + +Groups of men were waiting in the cloisters, waiting for the doors to +open for "Hall." As Olva came towards the gates an undergraduate, white, +breathless, brushed past him and burst into the quiet, murmuring groups. + +"My God, have you heard?" + +Olva passed through the iron gates. The groups broke. He had the +impression of many men standing back--black in the dim light--waiting, +listening. + +There was an instant's silence. Then, the man's voice breaking into a +shrill scream, the news came tumbling out. It seemed to flash a sudden +glare upon the blackness. + +"It's Carfax--Carfax--he's been murdered." + +The word was tossed, caught, flung against the stone pillars-- +"Murdered! Murdered! Murdered!" + +"They've just brought his body in now, found it in Sannet Wood +this evening; a working man found it. Been there two days. His neck +broken----" + +The mysterious groups scattered into strange fantastic shapes. There was +a pause and then a hundred voices began at once. Some one spoke to Olva +and he answered; his voice low and stern. . . . On every side confusion. + +But for himself, like steel armour encasing his body, was the strange +calm--aloof, unmoved, dispassionate--that had come to him half an hour +ago. + +He was alone--like God. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +MARGARET CRAVEN + +1 + +It is essential to the maintenance of the Cambridge spirit that there +should be no melodrama. Into that placid and speculative air real +life tumbles with a resounding shock and the many souls that have been +building, these many years, with careful elaboration, walls of defence +and protection find themselves suddenly naked and indecent before the +world. For that army of men who use Cambridge as a gate to the world +in front of them the passage through the narrow streets is too swift to +afford more in after life than a pleasant reminiscence. It is because +Cambridge is the bridge between stern discipline and pleasant freedom +that it is so happily remembered; but there are those who adopt +Cambridge as their abiding home, and it is for these that real life is +impossible. + +Beneath these grey walls as the years pass slowly the illusions grow. +Closer and closer creep the walls of experience, softer and thicker +are the garments worn to keep out the cold, gentler and gentler are +the speculations born of a good old Port and a knowledge of the Greek +language. About the High Tables voices softly dispute the turning of a +phrase, eyes mildly salute the careful dishes of a wisely chosen cook, +gentle patronage is bestowed upon the wild ruffian of the outer world. +Many bells ring, many fires are burning, many lamps are lit, many leaves +of many books are turned--busily, busily hands are raising walls of +self-defence; the world at first regretted, then patronized, is now +forgotten . . . hush, he sleeps, his feet in slippers, his head upon +the softest cushion, his hand still covering the broad page of his +dictionary. . . . Nothing, not birth nor love, nor death must disturb +his repose. + +And here, in the heart of the Sannet Wood, is death from violence, +death, naked, crude, removed from all sense of life as we know it. The +High Tables avoid Carfax's body with all possible discretion; for an +hour or two the Port has lost its flavour, Homer is hidden by a +cloud, the gentle chatter is curtailed and silenced. Amongst the lower +order--those wild and turbulent undergraduates--it is the only topic. +Carfax is very generally known; he had ridden, he had rowed, he had +played cricket. A member of the only sporting club in the University, he +had been known as a "real sportsman and a damned good fellow" because he +was often drunk and frequently spent an evening in London . . . and now +he is dead. + +In Saul's a number of very young spirits awake to the consciousness of +death. Here is a red-faced hearty fellow as fit as anything one moment +and dead the next. Never before had the fact been faced that this might +happen to any one. Let the High Table dismiss it easily, it is none +so simple for those who have not had time to build up those defending +walls. For a day or two there is a hush about the place, voices are +soft, men talk in groups, the mystery is the one sensation. . . . The +time passes, there are other interests, once more the High Table can +taste its wine. Death is again bundled into noisier streets, into a +harder, shriller air. . . . + + +2 + +Olva, on the morning after the discovery of the body, heard from Mrs. +Ridge speculations as to the probable criminal. "You take _my_ word, Mr. +Dune, sir, it was one of them there nasty tramps--always 'anging round +they are, and Miss Annett was only yesterday speakin' to me of a ugly +feller comin' round to their back door and askin' for bread, weren't +you, Miss Annett?" + +"I was, indeed, Mrs. Ridge." + +"And 'im with the nastiest 'eavy blue jaw you ever saw on a man, 'adn't +'e, Miss Annett?" + +"He had, indeed, Mrs. Ridge." + +"Ah, I shouldn't wonder--nasty-sort-o'-looking feller. And that +Sannet Wood too--nasty lonely place with its old stones and +all--comfortable?--I _don't_ think." + +Olva made inquiries as to the stones. + +"Why, ever so old, they say--before Christ, I've 'eard. Used to cut up +'uman flesh and eat it like the pore natives, and there's a ugly lookin' +stone in that very wood where they did it too, or so I've 'eard. Would +you go along that way in the dark, Miss Annett?" + +"Not much--I grant _you_, Mrs. Ridge." + +"Oh yes! not likely on a dark night, I _don't_ think!--and that pore Mr. +Carfax--well, all I say is, I 'opes they catch 'im, that's all _I_ say +. . ." with further reminiscence concerning Mrs. Birch who had worked +on Carfax's staircase the last ten years and never "'ad no kind of luck. +There was that Mr. Oliver---" + +Final dismissal of Mrs. Ridge and Miss Annett. + +Meanwhile, strange enough the relief that he felt because the body was +actually removed from that wood. No longer possible now to see it lying +there with the leg bent underneath, the head falling straight back, the +ring on the finger. . . . Curious, too, that the matchbox had not been +discovered; they must have searched pretty thoroughly by now--perhaps +after all it had not been dropped there. + +But over him there had fallen a strange lassitude. He was outside, +beyond it all. + +And then Craven came to see him. The event had wrought in the boy a +great change. It was precisely with a character like Craven's that such +an incident must cleave a division between youth and manhood. He had, +until last evening, considered nothing for himself; his father's death +had occurred when he was too young to see anything in it but a perfectly +natural removal of some one immensely old. The world had seemed the +easiest, the simplest of places, his years at Rugby had been delight. +Fully free from shocks of any kind. Good health, friendship, a little +learning, these things had made the days pass swiftly. Rupert Craven had +been yesterday, a child precisely typical of the system in which he +had been drilled; now he was something different. Olva knew that he was +capable of depths of feeling because of his extraordinary devotion to +his sister. Craven had often spoken of her to Olva--"So different +from me, the most brilliant person in the world. Her music is really +wonderful----people who know, I mean, all say so. But you see we're the +same age--only two of us. We've always been everything to one another." + +Olva wondered why Craven had told him. It was not as though they had +ever been very intimate, but Craven seemed to think that Olva and his +sister would have much in common. + +Olva wondered, as he looked at Craven standing there in the doorway, how +this sister would take the change in her brother. He had suddenly, as he +looked at Craven, a perception of the number of lives with whose course +his action had involved him. The wheel was beginning to turn. . . . + +The light had gone from Craven's eyes. His vitality and energy had +slipped from him, leaving his body heavy, unalert. He seemed puzzled, +awed; there were dark lines under his eyes, his cheeks were pale and his +mouth had lost its tendency to smile, its lines were heavy; but, above +all, his expression was interrogative. Finally, he was puzzled. + +For an instant, as he looked at him, Olva felt that he could not +face him, then with a deliberate summoning of the resources of his +temperament he strung himself to whatever the day might bring forth. + +"This is awful----" + +"Yes." + +"Of course it doesn't matter to you, Dune, as it does to me, but I knew +the fellow so awfully well. It's horrible, horrible. That he should have +died--like that." + +Olva broke out suddenly. "After all not such a bad way to die--swift +enough. I don't suppose Carfax valued life especially." + +"Oh! he enjoyed it--enjoyed it like anything. And that it should be +taken so trivially, for no reason at all. It seems to be almost certain +that it was some tramp or other--robbery the motive probably, and then +he was startled and left the money--it was all lying about on the grass. +But then Carfax was mixed up with so many ruffians of one kind and +another. It may have been revenge or any-thing. I believe they are +searching the wood now, but they're not likely to bring it home to +any one. Misty day, no one about, and the man simply used his fist +apparently--he must have been most awfully strong. Have you ever heard +of any one killing a man with one blow--except a prize-fighter?" + +"It's simply a knack, I believe, if you catch a fellow in a certain +spot." + +Supposing that some wretched tramp were arrested and accused? Some dirty +fellow from behind a hedge? All the tramps, all the ruffians of the +world were now a danger. The accusation of another would bring the truth +from him of course. His dark eyes moved across the room to Craven's +white, tired face. Within himself there moved now with every hour +stirring more acutely this desire for life. If only they would let him +alone . . . let the body alone . . . let it all alone. Let the world +sink back to its earlier apathy. + +His voice was resentful. + +"Carfax wasn't a good fellow, Craven. No, I know--_Nil nini bonum_ . . . +and all the rest of it. But it looks a bit like a judgment--judgment +from Heaven." + +Craven broke in. + +"But now--just now when his body's lying there. I know there were things +he did. He was a bit wild, of course----" + +"Yes, there was a girl, a girl in Midgett's tobacconist's shop--his +daughter. Carfax ruined her, body and soul . . . ruined her. He boasted +of it. Looks like a judgment." + +"I don't care." Craven sprang up. "Carfax may have done things, but he +was a friend of mine, and a good friend. They _must_ catch the man, they +_must_. It's a duty they owe us all. To have such a man as that hanging +about. Why, it might happen to any of us. You must help me, Dune." + +"Help you?" + +"Yes--help them to catch the murderer. We must think of everything that +could make a clue. Perhaps this girl. I _had_ heard something about her, +of course; but perhaps there was another lover, a rival or something, or +perhaps her father----" + +"Well," Dune said slowly, "my advice to you, Craven, is not to think too +much about the whole business. A thing like that is certain to get on +one's nerves--leave it alone as much as you can----" + +"What a funny chap you are! You're always like that. As detached from +everything as though you weren't alive at all. Why, I believe, if you'd +committed the murder yourself you wouldn't be much more concerned!" + +"Well, we've got to go on as we're made, I suppose, only _do_ take my +advice about not getting morbid over it. By the way, I see I'm playing +against St. Martin's this afternoon." + +"Yes. I thought at first I wouldn't play. But I suppose it's better to +go on doing one's ordinary things. You're coming in to-night, aren't +you? + +"Are you sure you want me after all this disturbance? + +"Why, of course; my mother's expecting you. Half-past seven. Don't +dress." He raised his arms above his head, yawning. He was obviously +better for the talk. His eyes were less strained, his body more alert. +"I'm tired to death. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night--saw poor +Carfax in the dark--ugh! Well, we meet this afternoon." + +When the door closed Olva had the sensation of having been on his trial. +Craven's eyes still followed him. Nerves, of course . . . but they had +strangely reminded him of Bunker. + + +3 + +Olva had never been to Craven's house before. It stood in a little +street that joined Cambridge to the country. At one end of the prim +little road the lamps stopped abruptly and a white chalk path ran +amongst dark common to a distant wood. + +At the other end a broader road with tram-lines crossed. The house was +built by itself, back from the highway, with a tiny drive and some dark +laurels. It was always gloomy and apparently unkept. The autumn leaves +were dull and sodden upon the drive; the bell and knocker upon the heavy +door, from which the paint was worn in places, were rusty. No sound came +from the little road beyond. + +The place seemed absolutely without life. Olva now, as he sent the +bell pealing through the passages, knew that this dark desertion had an +effect upon his nerves. A week ago he would not have noticed the place +at all--now he longed for lights and noise and company. He had played +foot-ball that afternoon better than ever before; that, too, had been a +defence, almost a protest, an assertion of his right to live. + +As he waited his thoughts pursued him. He had heard them say to-night +that no clue had been discovered, that the police were entirely at +a loss. It was impossible to trace foot-marks amongst all that +undergrowth. No one had been seen in that direction during the hours +when the murder must have been committed . . . so on--so on . . . all +this talk, this discussion. The wretched man was dead--no one would miss +him--no one cared--leave him alone, leave him alone. Olva pulled the +bell again furiously. Why couldn't they come? He wanted to escape from +this dark and dismal drive; these hanging laurels, the cold little +road, with its chilly lamps. An old and tottering woman, her nose nearly +touching her chin and her fingers in black mittens, opened at last and +led Olva into the very blackest and closest little hall that he had ever +encountered. The air was thick and musty with a strangely mingled smell +of burning wood, of faded pot-pourri, of dried skins. The ceiling was +low and black, and the only window was one of a dull red glass that +glimmered mournfully at a distance. The walls were hung with the +strangest things, prizes apparently that the late Dr. Craven had +secured in China--grinning heathen gods, uncouth weapons, dried skins of +animals. Out of this dark little hall Olva was led into a drawing-room +that was itself nearly as obscure. Here the ceiling was higher, but the +place square and dark; a deep set stone fireplace in which logs were +burning was the most obvious thing there. For the rest the floor seemed +littered with old twisted tables, odd chairs with carved legs, here a +plate with sea shells, here a glass case with some pieces of ribbon, +old rusty coins, silver ornaments. There were many old prints upon the +walls, landscapes, some portraits, and stuck here and there elaborate +arrangements of silk and ribbon and paper fans and coloured patterns. +Opposite the dark diamond-paned window was an old gilt mirror that +seemed to catch all the room into its dusty and faded reflections, and +to make what was old and tattered enough already, doubly dreary. The +room had the close and musty air of the hall as though windows were but +seldom opened; there was a scent as though oranges had recently been +eaten there. + +At first Olva had thought that he was alone in the room; then when +his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light he saw, sitting in a +high-backed chair, motionless, gazing into the fire, with her fine white +hands lying in her lap, a lady. She reminded him, in that first vision +of her, of "Phiz's" pictures of Mrs. Clennam in _Little Dorrit_, and +always afterwards that connection remained with him. Her thin, spare +figure had something intense, almost burning, in its immobility, in the +deep black of her dress and hair, in the white sharpness of the outline +of her face. + +How admirably, it seemed to him, she suited that room. She too may +have thought as she turned slowly to look at him that he fitted his +background, with the spare dignity of his figure, his fine eyes, the +black and white contrast of his body so that his cheeks, his hands, +seemed almost to shine against the faded air. It is certain that they +recognized at once some common ground so that they met as though they +had known one another for many years. The old minor caught for a moment +the fine gravity and silence of his approach to her as he waited for her +to greet him. + +But before she could speak to him the door had opened and Margaret +Craven entered. In her gravity, her silence, she seemed at once to claim +kinship with them both. She had the black hair, the pale face, the sharp +outline of her mother. As she came quietly towards them her reserve was +wonderful, but there was tenderness in the soft colour of her eyes, +in the lines of her mouth that made her also beautiful. But beyond the +tenderness there was also an energy that made every move seem like an +attack. In spite of her reserve there was impatience, and Olva's first +judgment of her was that the last thing in the world that she could +endure was muddle; she shone with the clean-cut decision of fine steel. + +Mrs. Craven spoke without rising from her chair. + +"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Dune, Rupert has often told us about +you." + +Margaret advanced to him and held out her hand. She looked him straight +in the eyes. + +"We have met before, you know." + +"I had not forgotten," he answered her gravely. + +Then Rupert came in. It was strange how one saw now, when he stood +beside his mother and sister, that he had some of their quality of stern +reserve. He had always seemed to Olva a perfectly ordinary person of +natural good health and good temper, and now this quality that had +descended upon him increased the fresh attention that he had already +during these last two days demanded. For something beyond question the +Carfax affair must be held responsible. It seemed now to be the only +thing that could hold his mind. He spoke very little, but his white +face, his tired eyes, his listless conversation, showed the occupation +of his mind. It was indeed a melancholy evening. + +To Olva, his nerves being already on edge, it was almost intolerable. +They passed from the drawing-room into a tiny dining-room--a room that +was as dingy and faded as the rest, with a dull red paper on the walls +and an old blue carpet. The old woman waited; the food was of the +simplest. + +Mrs. Craven scarcely spoke at all. She sat with her eyes gravely fixed +in front of her, save when she raised them to flash them for an instant +at Olva. He found this sudden gaze extraordinarily disconcerting; it was +as though she were reasserting her claim to some common understanding +that existed between them, to some secret that belonged to them alone. + +They avoided, for the most part, Carfax's death. Once Margaret Craven +said: "One of the most astonishing things about anything of this kind +seems to me the bravery of the murderer--the bravery I mean that is +demanded of any one during the days between the crime and his arrest. +To be in possession of that tremendous secret, to be at war, as it +were, with the world, and yet to lead, in all probability, an ordinary +life--that demands courage." + +"One may accustom oneself to anything," Mrs. Craven said. Her voice was +deep and musical, and her words seemed to linger almost like an echo in +the air. + +Olva thought as he looked at Margaret Craven that there was a strength +there that could face anything; it was more than courage; it might, +under certain circumstances, become fanaticism. But he knew that whereas +Mrs. Craven stirred in him a deep restlessness and disquiet, Margaret +Craven quieted and soothed him, almost, it seemed, deliberately, as +though she knew that he was in trouble. + +He said: "I should think that his worst enemy, if he have any +imagination at all, must be his loneliness. I can conceive that the +burden of the secret, even though there be no chance whatever of +discovery, must make that loneliness intolerable." + +Here Rupert Craven interrupted as though he were longing to break away +from the subject. + +"You played the finest game of your life this afternoon, Dune. I +never saw anything like that last try of yours. Whymper was on the +touch-line--I saw him. The 'Varsity's certain to try you again on +Saturday." + +"I've been slack too long," Olva said, laughing. "I never enjoyed +anything more than this afternoon." + +"I played the most miserable game I've ever played--couldn't get this +beastly thing out of my head." + +Olva felt as though he were almost at the end of his endurance. At that +moment he thought that he would have preferred them to burst the doors +and arrest him. He had never known such fatigue. If he could sleep he +did not care what happened to him. + +The rest of the evening seemed a dream. The dark, crowded drawing-room +flickered in the light from the crackling fire. Mrs. Craven, in her +stiff chair, never moving her eyes, flung shadows on the walls. Some +curtain blew drearily, with little secret taps, against the door. Rupert +Craven sat moodily in a dark corner. + +At Olva's request Margaret Craven played. The piano was old and needed +attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing. First +she gave him some modern things--some Debussy, _Les Miroires_ of Ravel, +some of the Russian ballet music of _Cleopatre_. These she flung at him, +fiercely, aggressively, playing them as though she would wring cries of +protest from the very notes. + +"There," she cried when she had finished, flashing a look that was +almost indignant at him. "There is your modern stuff--I can give you +more of it." + +"I would like something better now," he said gravely. + +Without a word that mood left her. In the dim candle-light her eyes +were tender again. Very softly she played the first two movements of the +"Moonlight" sonata. + +"I am not in the mood for the last movement," she said, and closed the +piano. Still about the old silver, the dark walls, the log fire, the old +gilt mirror, the sweet, delicate notes lingered. + +Soon afterwards he left them. As he passed down the chill, deserted +street, abandoning the dark laurelled garden, he saw behind him the +stern shadow of Mrs. Craven black upon the wall. + +But the loneliness, the unrest, walked behind him. Silence was beginning +to be terrible. God--this God--this Unknown God--pursued him. Only a +little comfort out of the very heart of that great pursuing shadow came +to him--Margaret Craven's grave and tender eyes. + + + +CHAPTER V + +STONE ALTARS + +1 + +Carfax was buried. There had been an inquest; certain tramps and +wanderers had been arrested, examined and dismissed. No discovery had +been made, and a verdict of Wilful "Wilful murder against some person or +persons unknown" had been returned. It was generally felt that Carfax's +life had not been of the most savoury and that there were, in all +probability, amongst the back streets of Cambridge several persons who +had owed him a grudge. He appeared, indeed, in the discoveries that were +now made on every side, to be something better dead than alive. A stout +and somnolent gentleman, with red cheeks and eyes half closed, was the +only mourner from the outside world at the funeral. This, it appeared, +was an uncle. Father dead, mother divorced and leading a pleasant +existence amongst the capitals of Europe. The uncle, although +maintaining a decent appearance of grief, was obviously, at heart, +relieved to be rid of his nephew so easily. Poor Carfax! For so rubicund +and noisy a person he left strangely little mark upon the world. Within +a fortnight the college had nearly lost account of his existence. He +lent to Sannet Wood a sinister air that caused numberless undergraduates +to cycle out in that direction. Now and again, when conversation +flagged, some one revived the subject. But it was a horse that needed +much whipping to make it go. It had kicked with its violent hoof upon +the soft walls of Cambridge life. For a moment it had seemed that it +would force its way, but the impression had been of the slightest. + +Even within the gates and courts of Saul's itself the impression that +Carfax had left faded with surprising swiftness into a melodramatic +memory. But nothing could have been more remarkable than the resolute +determination of these young men to push grim facts away. They were +not made--one could hear it so eloquently explained--for that kind of +tragedy. The autumn air, the furious exercise, the hissing kettles, the +decent and amiable discussions on Life reduced to the importance of a +Greek Accent--these things rejected violently the absurdity of Tragic +Crudity. + +They were quite right, these young men. They paid their shining pounds +for the capture--conscious or not as it might be--of an atmosphere, a +delicate and gentle setting to the crudity of their later life. Carfax, +when alive, had blundered into coarse disaster but had blundered in back +streets. Now the manner of his death painted him in shrieking colours. +The harmony was disturbed, therefore he must go. + +Of more importance to this world of Saul's was the strange revival--as +though from the dead--of Olva Dune. They had been prepared, many of +them, for some odd development, but this perfectly normal, healthy +interest in the affairs of the College was the last thing that his +grave, romantic air could ever have led any one to expect. His football +in the first place opened wide avenues of speculation. First there had +been the College game, then there had been the University match against +the Harlequins, and it was, admittedly, a very long time since any +one had seen anything like it. He had seemed, in that game against the +Harlequins, to possess every virtue that should belong to the ideal +three-quarter--pace, swerve, tackle, and through them all the steady +working of the brain. Nevertheless those earlier games were yet +remembered against him, and it was confidently said that this +brilliance, with a man of Dune's temperament, could not possibly last. +But, nevertheless, the expectation of his success brought him up, with +precipitation, against the personality of Cardillac, and it was this +implied rivalry that agitated the College. It is only in one's second +year that a matter of this kind can assume world-shaking importance. +The First-year Undergraduate is too near the child, the Third-year +Undergraduate too near the man. For the First-year man School, for the +Third-year man the World looms too heavily. So it is from the men of +the Second year that the leaders are to be selected, and at this time in +Saul's Cardillac seemed to have no rival. He combined, to an admirable +degree, the man of the world and the sportsman; he had an air that was +beyond rubies. He was elegant without being effeminate, arrogant without +being conceited, indifferent without being blase. He had learnt, at +Eton, and at the knee of a rich and charming mother, that to be crude +was the unforgivable sin. He worshipped the god of good manners and +would have made an admirable son of the great Lord Chesterfield. Finally +he was the only man in Saul's who had any "air" at all, and he had +already travelled round the world and been introduced by his mother to +Royalty at Marienbad. + +The only man who could ever have claimed any possible rivalry was Dune, +and Dune had seemed determined, until now, to avoid any-thing of +the kind. Suddenly the situation leapt upon the startled eyes of the +attentive world. Possibility of excitement. . . . + + +2 + +Olva, himself, was entirely unconcerned by this threatened rivalry. He +was being driven, by impulses that he understood only too well, into the +noisiest life that he could manage to find about him. The more noise the +better; he had only a cold fear at his heart that, after all, it would +penetrate his dreaded loneliness too little, let it be as loud a noise +as he could possibly summon. + +He had not now--and this was the more terrible--any consciousness of +Carfax at all; there was waiting for him, lurking, beast-like, until its +inevitable moment, something far more terrible. + +Meanwhile he made encounters. . . . There was Bunning. The Historical +Society in Saul's was held together by the Senior Tutor. This gentleman, +a Mr. Gregg, was thin, cadaverous, blue-chinned, mildly insincere. It +was his view of University life that undergraduates were born yesterday +and would believe anything that you told them. In spite, however, of +their tender years there was a lurking ferocity that must be checked by +an indulgent heartiness of manner, as one might offer a nut to a monkey. +His invariable manner of salutation--"_Come_ along, Simter--the very man +I wanted to see"--lost its attraction through much repetition, and the +hearty assumption on the amiable gentleman's part that "we are all +boys together" froze many undergraduates into a chill and indifferent +silence. He had not taken Holy Orders, but he gave, nevertheless, the +effect of adopting the language of the World, the Flesh and the Devil in +order that he might the better spy out the land. He attracted, finally, +to himself certain timid souls who preferred insincere comfort to none +at all, but he was hotly rejected by more able-bodied persons. + +Nevertheless the Historical Society prospered, and Olva one evening, +driven he knew not by what impulse, attended its meeting. When he +entered Mr. Gregg's room some dozen men were already seated there. The +walls were hung with groups in which a younger and even thinner Mr. +Gregg was displayed, a curious figure in "shorts." On one side of the +room two oars were hung and over the mantelpiece (littered with pipes) +there were photographs of the "Mona Lisa" and Da Vinci's "Last Supper." +The men in the room were embarrassed and silent. Under a strong light a +minute undergraduate with enormous spectacles sat, white and trembling; +it was obviously he who was to read the paper. + +Mr. Gregg came forward heartily. "Why, Dune, this is quite splendid! The +very man! Why, it is long since you've honoured our humble gathering. +Baccy? That's right. Help yourself. Erdington's going to read to us +about the Huns and stand a fire of questions afterwards, aren't you, +Erdington?" + +The youth in spectacles gulped. + +"_That's_ right. _That's_ right. Comfortable now, Dune? Got all you +want? _That's_ right. Now we can begin, I think. Minutes of the last +meeting, Stevens." + +Olva placed himself in a corner and looked round the room. He found that +most of the men were freshmen whose faces he did not know, but there, +moving his fat body uneasily on a chair, was Bunning, and there, to his +intense surprise, was Lawrence. That football hero was lounging with +half-closed eyes in a large armchair. His broad back looked as though +it would burst the wooden arms, and his plain, good-natured face beamed, +through a cloud of smoke, upon the company. Below his short, light +grey flannel trousers were bright purple socks. He had the body of a +bullock--short, thick, broad, strong, thoroughly well calculated to +withstand the rushes of oncoming three-quarters. Various freshmen flung +timid glances at the hero every now and again; it was to them an event +that they might have, for a whole hour, closely under their observation, +this king among men. + +Olva wondered at his presence. He remembered that Lawrence was taking +a "pass" degree in History. He knew also that Lawrence somewhere in the +depths of his slow brain had a thirst for knowledge and at the same time +a certain assurance that he would never acquire any. His slow voice, his +slow smile, the great, heavy back, the short thick legs attracted Olva; +there was something simple and primeval here that appealed to the Dune +blood. Moreover, since the afternoon when Olva had played against +the Harlequins and covered himself with glory, Lawrence had shown a +disposition to make friends. Old Lawrence might be stupid, but, as a +background, he was the most important man in the College. His slow, +lumbering body as it rolled along the Court was followed by the eyes of +countless freshmen. His appearance on the occasion of a College concert +was the signal for an orgy of applause. Cardillac might lead the +College, but he was, nevertheless, of common clay. Lawrence was of the +gods! + +Swift contrast the fat and shapeless Bunning! As the tremulous and +almost tearful voice of little Erdington continued the solemn and dreary +exposition of the Huns, Olva felt increasingly that Bunning's eye was +upon him. Olva had not seen the creature since the night of the revival, +and he was irritated with himself for the persistence of his interest. +The man's pluck had, in the first place, struck him, but now it seemed +to him that they were, in some undefinable measure, linked together. As +Olva watched him, half contemptuously, half sarcastically, he tried +to pin his brain down to the actual, definite connection. It seemed +ultimately to hang round that dreadful evening when they had been +together; it was almost---although this was absurd--as though Bunning +knew; but, in spite of the certain assurance of his ignorance Olva +felt as he moved uneasily under Bunning's gaze that the man himself was +making some claim upon him. It was evident that Bunning was unhappy; +he looked as though he had not slept; his face was white and puffy, his +eyes dark and heavy. He was paying no attention to the "Huns," but was +trying, obviously, to catch Olva's eye. As the reading progressed Olva +became more and more uneasy. It showed the things that must be happening +to his nerves. He had now that sensation that had often come to him +lately that some one was waiting for him outside the door. He imagined +that the man next to him, a spotty, thin and restless freshman, would +suddenly turn to him and say quite casually--"By the way, you killed +Carfax, didn't you?" Above all he imagined himself suddenly rising in +his place and saying---"Yes, gentlemen, this is all very well, very +interesting I'm sure, but I killed Carfax." + +His tortured brain was being driven, compelled to these utterances. +Behind him still he felt that pursuing cloud; one day it would catch him +and, out of the heart of it, there would leap . . . + +And all this because Bunning looked at him. It was becoming now a +habit--so general that it was instinctive--that, almost unconsciously, +he should, at a point like this, pull at his nerves. "They are watching +you; they are watching you. Don't let them see you like this; pull +yourself together. . . ." + +He did. Little Erdington's voice ceased. Mr. Gregg was heard saying: +"It has always occurred to me that the Huns . . . " and then, after many +speeches: "How does this point of view strike you, Erdington?" + +It didn't strike Erdington very strongly, and there was no other person +present who seemed to be struck in any very especial direction. The +discussion, therefore, quickly flagged. Olva escaped Bunning's pleading +eyes, found his gown amongst a heap in the corner, and avoiding Mr. +Gregg's pressing invitation to stay, plunged down the stairs. Behind +him, then, making his heart leap into his mouth, was a slow, thick +voice. + +"I say, Dune, what do you say to a little drink in my room after +all that muck?" Above him, in the dark shadow of the stair, loomed +Lawrence's thick body. + +"I shall be delighted," Olva said. + +Lawrence came lumbering down. He always spoke as though words were a +difficulty to him. He left out any word that was not of vital necessity. + +"Muck that-awful muck. What do they want gettin' a piffler like that kid +in the glasses to read his ideas? Ain't got any--not one--no more 'an I +have." + +They reached the Court--it swam softly in the moonlight--stars burnt, +here and there, in a trembling sky. + +Lawrence put his great arm through Olva's. "Rippin' game that o' yours +yesterday. Rippin'." He seemed to lick his lips over it as a gourmet +over a delicate dish. + +Lawrence pursued his slow thoughts. + +"I say, you know, you--re one of these clever ones--thinkin' an' writin' +an' all that--an' _yet_ you play footer like an archangel--a blarsted +archangel. Lucky devil!" He sighed heavily. "Every time I put on my +footer boots," he pursued, "I say to myself, 'What you'd be givin', +Jerry Lawrence, if you could just go and write a book! What you'd give! +But it ain't likely--my spellin's somethin' shockin'." + +Here there was interruption. Several men came rattling; laughing and +shouting, down the staircase behind Lawrence and Olva. + +"Oh, damn!" said Lawrence, slowly turning round upon them. Cardillac was +there, also Bobby Galleon, Rupert Craven, and one or two more. + +Cardillac shouted. "Hul_lo_, Lawrence, old man. Is it true, as they say, +that you've been sitting at the feet of our dearly beloved Gregg? How +splendid for you!" + +"I've been at our Historical Society hearin' about the Huns, and +therefore there's compellin' necessity for a drink," Lawrence said, +moving in the direction of his room. + +"Oh! rot, don't go in yet. We're thinking of going round and paying +Bunning a visit in another ten minutes. He's going to have a whole lot +of men in for a prayer-meeting. Thompson's just brought word." + +Thompson, a wretched creature in the Second Year, who had, during his +first term, been of the pious persuasion and had since turned traitor, +offered an eager assurance. + +The news obviously tempted Lawrence. He moved his body slowly round. + +"Well," he said slowly, then he turned to Olva. "You'll come?" he said. + +"No, thanks," said Olva shortly. "Bunning's been ragged about enough. +There's nothing the matter with the man." + +Cardillac's voice was amused. "Well, Dune, I daresay we can get on +without you," he said. + +Lawrence said slowly, "Well, I don't know. P'raps it's mean on the man. +I want a drink. I don't think I'm havin' any to-night, Cards." + +Cardillac was sharper. "Oh, nonsense, Lawrence, come along. It doesn't +do the man any harm." + +"It frightens the fellow out of his wits," said Dune sharply. "You +wouldn't like it yourself if you had a dozen fellows tumbling down upon +your rooms and chucking your things out of the window." + +Rupert Craven said: "Well, I'm off anyhow. Work for me." He vanished +into the shadow. + +Lawrence nodded. "Good-bye, Cards, old man. Go and play your old bridge +or something--leave the wretched Bunnin' to his prayers." + +Lawrence and Olva moved away. + + +3 + +The first thing that Lawrence said when they were lounging comfortably +in his worn but friendly chairs hit Olva, expecting peace here at any +rate, like a blow. + +"Fellers have forgotten Carfax damn quick." + +In that good-natured face there was no suspicion, but Olva seemed to see +there a curiosity, even an excitement. + +"Yes," he said, "they have." + +"Fellers," said Lawrence again, "aren't clever in this College. They get +their firsts in Science--little measly pups from Board Schools who don't +clean their teeth--and there are one or two men who can row a bit and +play footer a bit and play cricket a bit--I grant you all that--but +they _aren't_ clever--not what I call clever." + +Olva waited for the development of Lawrence's brain. + +"Now at St. Martin's they'll talk. They'll sit round a fire the whole +blessed evenin' talkin'--about whether there's a God or isn't a God, +about whether they're there or aren't there, about whether women are +rotten or not, about jolly old Greece and jolly old Rome--_I_ know. +That's the sort o' stuff you could go in for--damn interestin'. I'd like +to listen to a bit of it, although they'd laugh if they heard me say so, +but what I'm gettin' at is that there ain't any clever fellers in this +old bundle o' bricks, and Carfax's death proves it." + +"How does it prove it?" asked Dune. + +"Why, don't you see, they'd have made more of Carfax. Nobody said a +blessed thing that any one mightn't have said." + +Lawrence thought heavily for a moment or two, and then he brought out-- + +"Carfax was a stinker--a rotten fellow. That's granted, but there was +more in it than just Carfax. Why, any one could give him a knock on the +chin any day and there's no loss, but to have a feller killed in Sannet +Wood where all those old Druids---" + +As the words came from him Lawrence stopped. + +"Druids?" said Olva. + +"Why, yes. I wish I were a clever feller an' I could say what I mean, +but if I'd been a man with a bit of grey matter that's what I'd have +gone in for--those old stones, those old fellers who used to slash your +throat to please their God. My soul, there's stuff there. _They_ knew +what fighting _was--they'd_ have played footer with you. Ever since I +was a tiny kid they've excited me, and if I'd been a brainy feller I'd +have known a lot more, but the minute I start reactin' about them I +get heavy, can't keep my eyes to it. But I've walked miles--often and +often--to see a stone or a hill, don't yer know, and Sannet Wood's one +o' the best. So, says I, when I hear about young Carfax bein' done +for right there at the very place, I says to myself, 'You may look and +look--hold your old inquests--collar your likely feller--but it wasn't a +man that did it, and you'll have to go further than human beings if you +fix on the culprit.'" + +This was, in all probability, the longest speech that Lawrence had ever +made in his life. He himself seemed to think so, for he added in short +jerks: "It was those old Druids--got sick--o' the sight--o' Carfax's +dirty body--bangin' about in their preserves--an' they gave him a chuck +under the chin," and after that there was silence. + +To Olva the effect of this was uncanny. He played, it seemed, a +spiritual Blind Man's Buff. On every side of him things filled the air; +once and again he would touch them, sometimes he would fancy that he was +alone, clear, isolated, when suddenly something again would blunder up +against him. And always with him, driving him into the bustle of his +fellow men, flinging him, hurling him from one noise to another noise, +was the terror of silence. Let him once be alone, once waiting in +suspense, and he would hear. . . . What would he hear? + +He felt a sudden impulse to speak. + +"Do you know, Lawrence, in a kind of way I feel with you. I mean +this--that if--I had, at any time, committed a murder or were indeed +burdened by any tremendous breaking of a law, I believe it would be the +consciousness of the Maker of the law that would pursue me. It sounds +priggish, but I don't mean man. The laws that man has made +nothing--subject to any temporary civilization, mere fences put up for a +moment to keep the cattle in their proper fields. But the laws that God +made--if you break one . . ." + +Lawrence tuned heavily in his chair. + +"Then you believe in God?" + +"Yes, I believe in God." + +After that there was silence. Both men felt uncomfortable. Led by some +sudden, ungovernable impulse, they had both gone further than their +slight acquaintance justified. Olva was convinced that he had made a +fool of himself, that he had talked like a prig. Lawrence was groping +hopelessly amongst a forest of dark thought for some little sensible +thing that he might say. He found nothing and so relapsed, with false, +uncomfortable easiness, into-- + +"I say, old man, have a drink." + +The rest of that conversation concerned football. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE WATCHERS + +1 + +He was running--running for his life. Behind stretched the long white +road rising like a great bloated, warning finger out of the misty trees. +Heavy cushions of grey cloud blotched the sky; through the mist ridges +of ploughed field rose like bars. + +The dog, Bunker, was running beside him, his tongue out, body solid grey +against the lighter, floating grey around. His feet pattered beside his +master, but his body appeared to edge away and yet to be held by some +compelling force. + +Olva was running, running. But not from Carfax. There in the wood it +lay, the leg doubled under the body, the head hanging limply back. . . . +But that was nought, no fear, no terror in that. It could not pursue, +nor in its clumsy following, had it had such power, would there have +been any horror. There was no sound in the world save his running and +the patter of the dog's feet. Would the lights never come, those sullen +streets and at last the grateful, welcome crowds? + +He could see one lamp, far ahead of him, flinging its light forward to +help him. If he might only reach it before the pursuer caught him. Then, +behind him, oh! so softly, so gently, with a dreadful certainty, it +came. If he did but once look round, once behold that Shadow, his defeat +was sure. He would sink down there upon the road, the mists would crowd +upon him, and then the awful end. He began to call out, his breath came +in staggering gasps, his feet faltered. + +"O, mercy, mercy--have mercy." He sank trembling to his knees. + +"Dune, Dune, wake up! What's the matter? You've been making the most +awful shindy. Dune, Dune!" + +Slowly he came to himself. As his eyes caught the old familiar objects, +the little diamond-paned window, the books, the smiling tenderness +of "Aegidius," the last evening blaze lighting the room with golden +splendour, he pulled himself together. + +He had been sitting, he remembered now, in the armchair by the fire. +Craven had come to tea. They had had their meal, had talked pleasantly +enough, and then Olva had felt this overpowering desire for sleep come +down upon him. He knew the sensation of it well enough by now, for his +nights had often been crowded with waking hours, and this drowsiness +would attack him at any time--in hall, in chapel, in lecture. Sometimes +he had struggled against it, but to-day it had been too strong for him. +Craven's voice had grown fainter and fainter, the room had filled +with mist. He had made one desperate struggle, had seen through his +hall-closed eyes that Craven was looking at a magazine and blowing, +lazily, clouds of smoke from his pipe . . . then he had known no more. + +Now, as he struggled to himself, he saw that Craven was standing over +him, shaking him by the arm. + +"Hullo," he said stupidly, "I'm afraid I must have dropped off. I'm +afraid you must have thought me most frightfully rude." + +Craven left him and went back to his chair. + +"No," he said, "that's all right--only you _did_ talk in the most +extraordinary way." + +"Did I?" Olva looked at him gravely. "What did I say?" + +"Oh--I don't know--only you shouted a lot. You're overdone, aren't you? +Been working too hard I expect." Then he added, slowly, "You were crying +out about Carfax." + +There was a long pause. The clock ticked, the light slowly faded, +leaving the room in shadow. Craven's voice was uncomfortable. He said at +last-- + +"You must have been thinking a lot about Carfax lately." + +"What did I say?" asked Olva again. + +"Oh, nothing." Craven turned his eyes away to the shadowy panes. "You +were dreaming about a road--and something about a wood . . . and a +matchbox." + +"I've been sleeping badly." Olva got up, filled his pipe and relit it. +"I expect, although we don't say much about it, the Carfax business has +got on all our nerves. You don't look yourself, Craven." + +He didn't. His careless, happy look had left him. Increasingly, every +day, Olva seemed to see in him a likeness to his mother and sister. The +eyes now were darker, the tines of the mouth were harder. + +Meanwhile so strong bad the dream's impression been that Olva could not +yet disentangle it from his waking thoughts. He was in his room and yet +the white road stretched out of it--somewhere there by the +bookcase--oil through the mist into the heart of the dark wood. + +He had welcomed during these last days Craven's advances towards +friendship, partly because he wanted friends now, and partly, he was +beginning now to recognize, there was, in the back of his mind, the +lingering memory of the kind eyes of Margaret Craven. He perceived, too, +that here was sign enough of change in him--that he who had, from +his earliest days, held himself proudly, sternly aloof from all human +companionship save that of his father, should now, so readily and +eagerly, greet it. Craven had been proud of him, eager to be with him, +and had shown, in his artless opinions of men and things, the simplest, +most innocent of characters. + +"Time to light up," said Olva. The room had grown very dark. + +"I must be going." + +Olva noticed at once that there was a new note in Craven's voice. The +boy moved, restlessly, about the room. + +"I say," he brought out at last, laughing nervously, "don't go asleep +when I'm in the room again. It gives one fits." + +Both men were conscious of some subtle, vague impression moving in the +darkness between them. + +Olva answered gravely, "I've been sticking in at an old paper I've been +working on--no use to anybody, and I've been neglecting my proper work +for it, but it's absorbed me. That's what's given me such bad nights, I +expect." + +"I shouldn't have thought," Craven answered slowly, "that anything ever +upset you; I shouldn't have thought you had any nerves. And, in any +case, I didn't know you had thought twice about the Carfax business." + +Olva turned on the electric light. At the same moment there was a loud +knock on the door. + +Craven opened it, showing in the doorway a pale and flustered Bunning. +Craven looked at him with a surprised stare, and then, calling out +good-bye to Olva, walked off. + +Bunning stood hesitating, his great spectacles shining owl-like in the +light. + +Dune didn't want him. He was, he reflected as he looked at him, the +very last person whom he did want. And then Bunning had most irritating +habits. There was that trick of his of pushing up his spectacles +nervously higher on to his nose. He bad a silly shrill laugh, and he +had that lack of tact that made him, when you had given him a shilling's +worth of conversation and confidence, suppose that you had given him +half-a-crown's worth and expect that you would very shortly give him +five shillings' worth. He presumed on nothing at all, was confidential +when he ought to have been silent, and gushing when he should simply +have thanked you with a smile. Nothing, moreover, to look at. He had the +kind of complexion that looks as though it would break into spots at the +earliest opportunity. His clothes fitted him badly and were dusty at the +knees; his hair was of no colour nor strength whatever, and he bit his +nails. His eyes behind his spectacles were watery and restless, and +his linen always looked as though it had been quite clean yesterday and +would be quite filthy to-morrow. + +And yet Olva, as he looked at him seated awkwardly in a chair, was +surprisingly, unexpectedly touched. The creature was so obviously +sincere. It was indeed poor Bunning's only possible "leg," his ardour. +He would willingly go to the stake for anything. It was the actual death +and sacrifice that mattered---and Bunning's life was spent in marching, +magnificently and wholeheartedly, to the sacrificial altars and then +discovering that he had simply been asked to tea. + +Now it was evident that he wanted something from Olva. His tremulous +eyes bad, as they gazed at Dune across the room, the dumb worship of a +dog adoring its master. + +"I hear," he said in that husky voice that always sounded as though +he were just swallowing the last crumbs of a piece of toast, "that you +stopped Cardillac and the others coming round to my rooms the other +night. I can't tell you how I feel about it." + +"Rot," said Olva brusquely. "If you were less of an ass they wouldn't +want to come round to your rooms so often." + +"I know," said Bunning. "I am an awful ass." He pushed his spectacles up +his nose. "Why did you stop them coming?" he asked. + +"Simply," said Olva, "because it seems to me that ten men on to one is a +rotten poor game." + +"I don't know," said Bunning, still very husky, "If a man's a fool he +gets rotted. That's natural enough. I've always been rotted all my life. +I used to think it was because people didn't understand me--now I know +that it really is because I am an ass." + +Strangely, suddenly, some of the burden that bad been upon Olva now for +so long was lifted. The atmosphere of the room that had lain upon him +so heavily was lighter--and he seemed to feel the gentle withdrawing of +that pursuit that now, ever, night and day, sounded in his ears. + +And what, above all, had happened to him? He flung his mind back to a +month ago. With what scorn then would he have glanced at Bunning's ugly +body--with what impatience have listened to his pitiful confessions. Now +he said gently-- + +"Tell me about yourself." + +Bunning gulped and gripped the baggy knees of his trousers. + +"I'm very unhappy," he said at last desperately--"very. And if you +hadn't come with me the other night to hear Med-Tetloe--I'm sure I +don't know why you did--I shouldn't have come now---" + +"Well, what's the matter?" + +Bunning's mouth was full of toast. "It was that night--that service. I +was very worked up and I went round afterwards to speak to him. I could +see, you know, that it hadn't touched you at all. I could see that, and +then when I went round to see him he hadn't got anything to say--nothing +that I wanted--and--suddenly--then--at that moment--I felt it was all +no good. It was you, you made me feel like that---" + +"I?" + +"Yes. If you hadn't gone--like that--it would have been different. But +when you--the last man in College to care about it-went and gave it its +chance I thought that would prove it. And then when I went to him he was +so silly, Med-Tetloe I mean. Oh! I can't describe it but it was just no +use and I began to feel that it was all no good. I don't believe there +is a God at all--it's all been wrong--I don't know what to do. I don't +know where to go. I've been wretched for days, not sleeping or anything. +And then they come and rag me--and--and--the Union men want me to take +Cards round for a Prayer Meeting--and--and--I wouldn't, and they said. +. . . Oh! I don't know, I don't know _what_ to do--I haven't got +any-thing left!" + +And here, to Olva's intense dismay, the wretched creature burst into the +most passionate and desperate tears, putting his great hands over his +face, his whole body sobbing. It was desolation--the desolation of a +human being who had clutched desperately at hope after hope, who had +demanded urgently that he should be given something to live for and had +had all things snatched from his hands. + +Olva, knowing what his own loneliness was, and the terror of it, +understood. A fortnight ago he would have hated the scene, have sent +Bunning, with a cutting word, flying from the room, never to return. + +"I say, Bunning, you mustn't carry on like this--you're overdone or +something. Besides, I don't understand. What does it matter if you +_have_ grown to distrust Med-Tetloe and all that crowd. They aren't the +only people in the world--that isn't the only sort of religion." + +"It's all I had. I haven't got anything now. They don't want me at home. +They don't want me here. I'm not clever. I can't do anything. . . . And +now God's gone. . . . I think I'll drown myself." + +"Nonsense. You mustn't talk like that--God's never gone." + +Bunning dropped his hands, looked up, his face ridiculous with its +tear-stains. + +"You think there's a God?" + +"I know there's a God." + +"Oh!" Bunning sighed. + +"But you mustn't take it from me, you know. You must think it out for +yourself. Everybody has to." + +"Yes--but you matter--more to me than--any one." + +"I?" + +"Yes." Bunning looked at the floor and began to speak very fast. "You've +always seemed to me wonderful--so different from every one else. You +always looked--so wonderful. I've always been like that, wanted my hero, +and I haven't generally been able to speak to them--my heroes I mean. I +never thought, of course, that I should speak to you. And then they +sent me that day to you, and you came with me--it was so wonderful--I've +thought of nothing else since. I don't think God would matter if you'd +only let me come to see you sometimes and talk to you--like this." + +"Don't talk that sort of rot. Always glad to see you. Of course you may +come in and talk if you wish." + +"Oh! you're so different--from what I thought. You always looked as +though you despised everybody--and now you look--Oh! I don't know--but +I'm afraid of you---" + +The wretched Bunning was swiftly regaining confidence. He was now, of +course, about to plunge a great deal farther than was necessary and to +burden Olva with sell-revelations and the rest. + +Olva hurriedly broke in-- + +"Well, come and see me when you want to. I've got a lot of work to do +before Hall. But we'll go for a walk one day. . . ." + +Bunning was at once flung back on to his timid self. He pushed his +spectacles back, blushed, nearly tumbled over his chair as he got up, +and backed confusedly out of the room. + +He tried to say something at the door--"I can't thank you enough. . ." +he stuttered and was gone. + +As the door closed behind him, swiftly Olva was conscious again of the +Pursuit. . . . + +He turned to the empty room--"Leave me alone," he whispered. "For pity's +sake leave me alone." + +The silence that followed was filled with insistent, mysterious urgency. + + +2 + +Craven did not come that night to Hall. Galleon had asked him and Olva +to breakfast-the next morning. He did not appear. + +About two o'clock in the afternoon a note was sent round to Olva's +rooms. "I've been rather seedy. Just out for a long walk--do you mind my +taking Bunker? Send word round to my rooms if you mind.--R. C." Craven +had taken Bunker out for walks before and had grown fond of the dog. +There was nothing in that. But Olva, as he stood in the middle of his +room with the note in his hand, was frightened. + +The result of it was that about five o'clock on that afternoon Olva paid +his second visit to the dark house in Rocket Road. His motives for going +were confused, but he knew that at the back of them was a desire that he +should find Margaret Craven, with her grave eyes, waiting for him in the +musty little drawing-room, and that Mrs. Craven, that mysterious woman, +should not be there. The hall, when the old servant had admitted him, +once again seemed to enfold him in its darkness and heavy air with an +almost active purpose. It breathed with an actual sound, almost with +a melody . . . the "Valse Triste" of Sibelius, a favourite with Olva, +seemed to him now to be humming its thin spiral note amongst the skins +and Chinese weapons that covered the walls. The House seemed to come +forward, on this second occasion, actively, personally. . . . His wish +was gratified. Margaret Craven was alone in the dark, low-ceilinged +drawing-room, standing, in her black dress, before the great deep +fireplace, as though she had known that he would come and had been +awaiting his arrival. + +"I know that you will excuse my mother," she said in her grave, quiet +voice. "She is not very well. She will be sorry not to have seen you." +Her hand was cool and strong, and, as he held it for an instant, he was +strangely conscious that she, as well as the House, had moved into more +intimate relation with him since their last meeting. + +They sat down and talked quietly, their voices sounding like low notes +of music in the heavy room. He was conscious of rest in the repose of +her figure, the pale outline of her face, the even voice, and above +all the grave tenderness of her eyes. He was aware, too, that she was +demanding from him something of the same kind; he divined that for her, +too, life had been no easy thing since they last met and that she wanted +now a little relief before she must return. He tried to give it her. + +All through their conversation he was still conscious in the dim rustle +that any breeze made in the room of that thin melody that Sibelius once +heard. . . . + +"I hope that Mrs. Craven is not seriously ill? + +"No. It is one of her headaches. Her nerves are very easily upset. There +was a thunder-storm last night. . . . She has never been strong since +father died." + +"You will tell her how sorry I am." + +"Thank you. She is wonderfully brave about it. She never complains--she +suffers more than we know, I think. I don't think this house is good +for her. Father died here and her bedroom now is the room where he died. +That is not good for her, I'm sure. Rupert and I both are agreed +about it, but we cannot get her to change her mind. She can be very +determined." + +Yes--Olva, remembering her as she sat so sternly before the fire, knew +that she could be determined. + +"And I am afraid that your brother isn't very well either." + +She looked at him with troubled eyes. "I am distressed about Rupert. He +has taken this death of his friend so terribly to heart. I have never +known him morbid about anything before. It is really strange because I +don't think he was greatly attached to Mr. Carfax. There were things I +know that he didn't like." + +"Yes. He doesn't look the kind of fellow who would let his mind dwell on +things. He looks too healthy." + +"No. He came in to see us for an hour last night and sat there without a +word. I played to him--he seemed not to hear it. And generally he cares +for music." + +"I'm afraid"--their eyes met and Olva held hers until he had finished +his sentence--"I'm afraid that it must seem a little lonely and gloomy +for you here--in this house--after your years abroad." + +She looked away from him into the fire. + +"Yes," she said, speaking with sudden intensity. "I hate it. I have +hated it always--this house, Cambridge, the life we lead here. I love +my mother, but since I have been abroad something has happened to change +her. There is no confidence between us now. And it is lonely because she +speaks so little--I am afraid she is really very ill, but she refuses to +see a doctor. . . ." + +Then her voice was softer again, and she leant forward a little towards +him. "And I have told you this, Mr. Dune, because if you will you can +help me--all of us. Do you know that she liked you immensely the other +even big? I have never known her take to any one at once, so strongly. +She told me afterwards that you had done her more good than fifty +doctors--just your being there--so that if, sometimes, you could come +and see her----" + +He did not know what it was that suddenly, at her words, brought the +terror back to him. He saw Mrs. Craven so upright, so motionless, +looking at him across the room--with recognition, with some implied +claim. Why, he had spoken scarcely ten words to her. How could he +possibly have been of any use to her? And then, afraid lest his +momentary pause had been noticeable, he said eagerly--- + +"It is very kind of Mrs. Craven to say that. Of course I will come +if she really cares about it. I am not a man of many friends or many +occupations. . . ." + +She broke in upon him-- + +"You could be if you cared. I know, because Rupert has told me. They all +think you wonderful, but you don't care. Don't throw away friends, Mr. +Dune--one can be so lonely without them." + +Her voice shook a little and he was suddenly afraid that she was going +to cry. He bent towards her. + +"I think, perhaps, we are alike in that, Miss Craven. We do not make our +friends easily, but they mean a great deal to us when they come. Yes, +I _am_ lonely and I _am_ a little tired of bearing my worries alone, in +silence. Perhaps I can help you to stand this life a little better if I +tell you that--mine is every bit as hard." + +She turned to him eyes that were filled with gratitude. Her whole +body seemed to be touched with some new glow. Into the heart of their +consciousness of the situation that had arisen between them there came, +sharply, the sound of a shutting door. Then steps in the hall. + +"That's Rupert," she said. + +They both rose as he came into the room. He stood back in the shadow for +a moment as though surprised at Olva's presence. Then he came forward +very gravely. + +"I've found something of yours, Dune," he said. It lay, gleaming, in his +hand. "Your matchbox." + +Dune drew a sharp breath. Then he took it and looked at it. + +"Where did you find it?" + +"In Saunet Wood. Bunker and I have been for a walk there. Bunker found +it." + +As the three of them stood there, motionless, in the middle of the dark +room, Olva caught, through the open door, the last sad fading breath of +the "Valse Triste." + + + +CHAPTER VII + +TERROR + +1 + +That night the cold fell, like a plague, upon the town. It came, +sweeping across the long low flats, crisping the dark canals with white +frosted ice, stiffening the thin reeds at the river's edge, taking each +blade of grass and holding it in its iron hand and then leaving it an +independent thing of cold and shining beauty. At last it blew in wild +gales down the narrow streets, throwing the colour of those grey walls +against a sky of the sharpest blue, making of each glittering star a +frozen eye, carrying in its arms a round red sun that it might fasten +it, like a frosted orange, against its hard blue canopy. + +Already now, at half-past two of the afternoon, there were signs of the +early dusk. The blue was slowly being drained from the sky, and against +the low horizon a faint golden shadow soon to burn into the heart of the +cold blue, was hovering. + +Olva Dune, turning into the King's Parade, was conscious of crowds of +people, of a gaiety and life that filled the air with sound. He checked +sternly with a furious exercise of self-control his impulse to creep +back into the narrow streets that he had just left. + +"It's an Idea," he repeated over and over, as he stood there. "It's an +Idea. . . . You are like any one else--you are as you were . . . before +. . . everything. There is no mark--no one knows." + +For it seemed to him that above him, around him, always before him and +behind him there was a grey shadow, and that as men approached him this +shadow, bending, whispered, and, as they came to him, they flung at him +a frightened glance . . . and passed. + +If only he might take the arm of any one of those bright and careless +young men and say to him, "I killed Carfax--thus and thus it was." Oh! +the relief! the lifting of the weight! For then--and only then--this +pursuing Shadow, so strangely grave, not cruel, but only relentless, +would step back. Because that confession--how clearly he knew it!--was +the thing that God demanded. So long as he kept silence he resisted +the Pursuer--so long as he resisted the Pursuer he must fly, he must +escape--first into Silence, then into Sound, then back again to Silence. +Somewhere, behind his actual consciousness: there was the knowledge +that, did he once yield himself, life would be well, but that yielding +meant Confession, Renunciation, Devotion. It was not because it was +Carfax that he had killed, but it was because it was God that had spoken +to him, that he fled. + +A fortnight ago he would have been already defeated--the Pursuer should +have caught him, bound him, done with him as he would. But now--in that +same instant that young Craven had looked at him with challenge in his +eyes, in that instant also he, Olva, had looked at Margaret. + +In that silence, yesterday evening, in the dark drawing-room the two +facts had together leapt at him--he loved Margaret Craven, he was +suspected by Rupert Craven. Love had thus, terribly, grimly, and yet so +wonderfully, sprung into his heart that had never, until now, known its +lightest touch. Because of it--because Margaret Craven must never know +what he had done--he must fight Craven, must lie and twist and +turn. . . . His soul must belong to Margaret Craven, not to this +terrible, unperturbed, pursuing God. + +All night he had fought for control. A very little more and he would +rush crying his secret to the whole world; slowly he had summoned calm +back to him. Rupert Craven should be defeated; he would, quietly, visit +Sannet Wood, face it in its naked fact, stand before it and examine +it--and fight down once and for all this imagination of God. + +Those glances that men flung upon him, that sudden raising of the eyes +to his face . . . a man greeted him, another man waved his hand always +this same suspicion . . . the great grey shadow that bent and whispered +in their ears. + +He saw, too, another picture. High above him some great power was +seated, and down to earth there bent a mighty Hand. Into this Hand +very gently, very tenderly, certain figures were drawn--Mrs. Craven, +Margaret, Rupert, Bunning, even Lawrence. Olva was dragging with him, +into the heart of some terrible climax, these so diverse persons; he +could not escape now--other lives were twisted into the fabric of his +own. + +And yet with this certainty of the futility of it, he must still +struggle . . . to the very end. + +On that cold day the world seemed to stand, as men gather about a +coursing match, with hard eyes and jeering faces to watch the hopeless +flight. . . . + + +2 + +He fetched Banker from the stable where he was kept and set off along +the hard white road. He had behaved very badly to Bunker, a but the dog +showed no signs of delight at his release. On other days when he had +been kept in his stable for a considerable time he had gone mad with joy +and jumped at his master, wagging his whole body in excitement. Now he +walked very slowly by Olva's side, a little way behind him; when +Olva spoke to him he wagged his tail, but as though it were duty that +impelled it. + +The air grew colder aid colder--slowly now there had stolen on to the +heart of the blue sky white pinnacles of cloud--a dazzling whiteness, +but catching, mysteriously, the shadow of the gold light that heralded +the setting sun. These clouds were charged with snow; as they hung there +they seemed to radiate from their depths an even more piercing coldness. +They hung above Olva like a vast mountain range and had in their outline +so sharp and real an existence that they were part of the hard black +horizon, rising, immediately, out of the long, low, shivering flats. + +There was no sound in all the world; behind him, sharply, the Cambridge +towers bit the sky--before him like a clenched hand was the little +wood. + +The silence seemed to have a rhythm and voice of its own so that if one +listened, quite clearly the tramp of a marching army came over the level +ground. Always an army marching--and when suddenly a bird rose from the +canal with a sharp cry the tramping was caught, with the bird, for an +instant, into the air, and then when the cry was ended sank down again. +The wood enlarged; it lay upon the cold land now like a man's head; a +man with a cap. Spaces between the trees were eyes and it seemed that he +was lying behind the rim of the world and leaning his head upon the edge +of it and gazing. . . . + +Bunker suddenly stopped and looked up at his master. + +"Come on," Olva turned on to him sharply. + +The dog looked at him, pleading. Then in Olva's dark stern face he +seemed to see that there was no relenting--that wood must be faced. He +moved forward again, but slowly, reluctantly. All this nonsense that +Lawrence had talked about Druids. We will soon see what to make of +that. And yet, in the wood, it did seem as though there were something +waiting. It was now no longer a man's head--only a dark, melancholy band +of trees, dead black now against the high white clouds. + +There had risen in Olva the fighting spirit. Fear was still there, +ghastly fear, but also an anger, a rage. Why should he be thus +tormented? What had he done? Who was Carfax that the slaying of him +should be so unforgettable a sin? Moreover, had it been the mere vulgar +hauntings of remorse, terrors of a frightened conscience, he could +have turned upon himself the contempt that any Dune must deserve for so +ignoble a submission. + +But here there were other things--some-thing that no human resolution +could combat. He seized then eagerly on the things that he could +conquer--the suspicions of Rupert Craven, the rivalry of Cardillac, +the confidences of Bunning, . . . the grave tenderness of Margaret +Craven . . . these things he would clutch and hold, let the Pursuing +Spirits do what they would. + +As he entered the dark wood a few flakes of snow were falling. He +knew where the Druid Stones lay. He had once been shown them by some +undergraduate interested in such things. They lay a little to the right, +below the little crooked path and above the Hollow. + +The wood was not dripping now--held in the iron hand of the frost the +very leaves on the ground seemed to be made of metal; the bare twisted +branches of the trees shone with frosty--the earth crackled beneath his +foot and in the wood's silence, when he broke a twig with his boot the +sound shot into the air and rang against the listening stillness. + +He looked at the Hollow, Bunker close at his heels. He could see the +spot where he had first stood, talking to Carfax--there where the ferns +now glistened with silver. There was the place where Carfax had fallen. +Bunker was smelling with his head down at the ground. What did the dog +remember? What had Craven meant when he said that Bunker had found the +matchbox? + +He stood silently looking down at the Hollow. In his heart now there was +no terror. When, during these last days, he had been fighting his fear +it had always seemed to him that the heart of it lay in this Hollow. He +had always seen the dripping fern, smelt the wet earth, heard the sound +of the mist falling from the trees. Now the earth was clear and hard and +cold. The great white mountains drove higher into the sky, very softly +and gently a few white flakes were falling. + +With a great relief, almost a sigh of thank-fulness, he turned back +to the Druids' Stones. There they were--two of them standing upright, +stained with lichen, grey and weather-beaten, one lying flat, hollowed +a little in the centre. The ferns stood above them and the bare branches +of the trees crossed in strange shapes against the sky. + +Here, too, there was a peaceful, restful silence. No more was God in +these quiet stones than He had been in that noisy theatrical Revival +Meeting--Lawrence was wrong. Those old religions were dead. No more +could the Greek Gods pass smiling into the temples of their worshippers, +no more Wodin, Thor and the rest may demand their bloody sacrifice. + +These old stones are dead. The Gods are dead--but God? . . . + +He stayed there for a while and the snow fell more heavily. The golden +light had faded, the high white clouds had swallowed the blue. There +would soon be storm. + +In the wood--strangest of ironies--there had been peace. + +Now he started down the road again and was conscious, as the wood +slipped back into distance, of some vague alarm. + + +3 + +The world was now rapidly transformed. There had been promised a blaze +of glory, but the sun, red and angry, had been drowned by the thick +grey clouds that now flooded the air--dimly seen for an instant outlined +against the grey--then suddenly non-existent, leaving a world like a +piece of crumpled paper white and dark to all its boundaries. + +The snow fell now more swiftly but always gently, imperturbably--almost +it might seem with the whispering intention of some important message. + +Olva was intensely cold. He buttoned his coat tightly up to his ears, +but nevertheless the air was so biting that it hurt. Bunker, with his +head down, drove against the snow that was coming now ever more thickly. + +The peace that there had been in the little wood was now utterly gone. +The air seemed full of voices. They came with the snow, and as the +flakes blew more closely against his face and coat there seemed to press +about him a multitude of persons. + +He drove forward, but this sense of oppression increased with every +step. The wood had been swallowed by the storm. Olva felt like a man who +has long been struggling with some vice; insidiously the temptation has +grown in force and power--his brain, once so active in the struggle, is +now dimmed and dulled. His power of resistance, once so vigorous, is +now confused--confusion grows to paralysis--he can only now stare, +distressed, at the dark temptation, there have swept over him such +strong waters that struggle is no longer of avail--one last clutch at +the vice, one last desperate and hateful pleasure, and he is gone. . . . + +Olva knew that behind him in the storm the Pursuit was again upon him. +That brief respite in the wood had not been long granted him. The +snow choked him, blinded him, his body was desperately cold, his soul +trembling with fear. On every side he was surrounded--the world had +vanished, only the thin grey body of his dog, panting at his side, could +be dimly seen. + +God had not been in the wood, but God was in the storm. . . . + +A last desperate resistance held him. He stayed where he was and shouted +against the blinding snow. + +"There _is_ no God. . . . There _is_ no God." + +Suddenly his voice sank to a whisper. "There _is_ no God," he muttered. + +The dog was standing, his eyes wide with terror, his feet apart, his +body quivering. + +Olva gazed into the storm. Then, desperately, he started to run. . . . + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +REVELATION OF BUNNING (I) + +1 + +On that evening the College Debating Society exercised its mind over the +question of Naval Defence. + +One gentleman, timid of voice, uncertain in wit, easily dismayed by +the derisive laughter of the opposite party, asserted that "This House +considers the Naval policy of the present Government fatal to the +country's best interests." An eager politician, with a shrill voice +and a torrent of words, denied this statement. The College, with the +exception of certain gentlemen destined for the Church (they had been +told by their parents to speak on every possible public occasion in +order to be ready for a prospective pulpit), displayed a sublime and +somnolent indifference. The four gentlemen on the paper had prepared +their speeches beforehand and were armed with notes and a certain +nervous fluency. For the rest, the question was but slightly assisted. +The prospective members of the Church thought of many things to say +until they rose to their feet when they could only remember "that the +last gentleman's speech bad been the most preposterous thing they had +ever had the pleasure of listening to--and that, er--er--the Navy was +all right, and, er--if the gentleman who had spoken last but two +thought it wasn't, well, all they--er--could say was that it reminded +them--er--of a story they had once heard (here follows story without +point, conclusion or brevity)--and--er--in fact the Navy was all right. +. . ." + +The Debate, in short, was languishing when Dune and Cardillac entered +the room together. Here was an amazing thing. + +It was well known that only last night Cardillac and Dune had both +been proposed for the office of President of the Wolves. The Wolves, a +society of twelve founded for the purpose of dining well and dressing +beautifully, was by far the smartest thing that Saul's possessed. It was +famous throughout the University for the noise and extravagance of its +dinners, and you might not belong to it unless you had played for the +University on at least one occasion in some game or another and unless, +be it understood, you were, in yourself, quite immensely desirable. +Towards the end of every Christmas term a President for the ensuing year +was elected; he must be a second year man, and it was considered by +the whole college that this was the highest honour that the gods could +possibly, during your stay at Cambridge, confer upon you. Even the +members of the Christian Union, horrified though they were by the amount +of wine that was drunk on dining occasions and the consequent peril +to their own goods and chattels, bowed to the shining splendour of the +fortunate hero. It had never yet been known that a President of the +Wolves should also be a member of the Christian Union, but one must +never despair, and nets, the most attractive and genial of nets, were +flung to catch the great man. + +On the present occasion it had been generally understood that Cardillac +would be elected without any possible opposition. Dune had not for a +moment occurred to any one. He had; during his first term, when his +football prowess had passed, swinging through the University, been +elected to the Wolves, but he had only attended one dinner and had then +remained severely and unpleasantly sober. There was no other possible +rival to Cardillac, to his distinction, his power of witty and malicious +after-dinner speaking, his wonderful clothes, his admirable football, +his haughty indifference. He would of course be elected. + +And then, some three weeks ago, this wonderful, unexpected development +of Olva Dune had startled the world. His football, his sudden geniality +(he had been seen, it was asserted, at one of Med-Tetloe's revival +meetings with, of all people in the world, Bunning), his air of being +able to do anything whatever if he wished to exert himself, here was +a character indeed--so wonderful that it was felt, even by the most +patriotic of Saulines, that he ought, in reality, to have belonged to +St. Martin's. + +It became at once, of course, a case of rivalry between Dune and +Cardillac, and it was confidently expected that Dune would be victorious +in every part of the field. + +Cardillac had reigned for a considerable period and there were many men +to whom he had been exceedingly offensive. Dune, although he admitted no +one to closer intimacy, was offensive never. If, moreover, you had seen +him play the other day against the Harlequins, you could but fall down +on your knees and worship. Here, too, he rivalled Cardillac. Tester, +Buchan, and Whymper were quite certain of their places in the University +side--Whymper because he was the greatest three-quarter that Cambridge +had had for many seasons, and Tester and Buchan because they had been at +Fettes together and Buchan had played inside right to Tester's outside +since the very tenderest age; they therefore understood one another +backward. There remained then only this fourth place, and Cardillac +seemed certain enough . . . until Dune's revival. And now it depended +on Whymper. He would choose, of the two men, the one who suited him the +better. Cardillac had played with him more than had Dune. Cardillac +was safe, steady, reliable. Dune was uncertain, capricious, suddenly +indifferent. On the other hand not Whymper himself could rival the +brilliance of Dune's game against the Harlequins. That was in a place by +itself--let him play like that at Queen's Club in December and no Oxford +defence could stop him. + +So it was argued, so discussed. Certain, at any rate, that Dune's +recrudescence threatened the ruin of Cardillac's two dearest ambitions, +and Cardillac did not easily either forget or forgive. + +And yet behold them now, gravely, the gaze of the entire company, +entering together, sitting together by the fire, watching with serious +eyes the clumsy efforts of an unhappily ambitious Freshman to make +clear his opinions of the Navy, the Government and the British Islands +generally--only, ultimately, producing a tittering, stammering apology +for having burdened so long with his hapless clamour, the Debate. + + +2 + +Olva liked Cardillac--Cardillac liked Olva. They both in their attitude +to College affairs saw beyond the College gates into the wide and bright +world. Cardillac, when it had seemed that no danger could threaten +either his election to the Wolves or the acquisition of his Football +Blue, had regarded both honours quietly and with indifference. It amazed +him now when both these Prizes were seriously threatened that he should +still appreciate and even seek out Dune's company. + +Had it been any other man in the College he would have been a very +active enemy, but here was the one man who had that larger air, that +finer style whose gravity was beautiful, whose soul was beyond Wolves +and Rugby football, whose future in the real world promised to be of a +fine and highly ordered kind. Cardillac wished eagerly that these things +might yet be his, but if he were to be beaten, then, of all men in the +world, let it be by Dune. In his own scant, cynical estimate of his +fellow-beings Dune alone demanded a wide and appreciative attention. + +To Olva on this evening it mattered but little where he was or what he +did. The snow had ceased to fall, and now, under a starry sky, lay white +and glistening clear; but still with him storm seemed to hover, its snow +beating his body, its fury yieling him no respite. + +And now there was no longer any doubt. He faced it with the most +matter-of-fact self-possession of which he was capable. Some-thing was +waiting for his surrender. He figured it, sitting quietly back in the +reading-room, listening to the Debate, watching the faces around him, as +the tracing of some one who was dearly loved. There was nothing stranger +in it all than his own certainty that the Power that pursued him was +tender. And here he crossed the division between the Real and the +Unreal, because his present consciousness of this Power was as actual as +his consciousness of the chairs and tables that filled the reading-room. +That was the essential thing that made the supreme gulf between himself +and his companions. It was not because he had murdered Carfax but +because he was now absolutely conscious of God that he was so alone. He +could not touch his human companions, he could scarcely see them. It was +through this isolation that God was driving him to confession. Now, in +the outer Court, huge against the white dazzling snow, the great shadow +was hovering, its head piercing the stars, its arms outstretched. +Let him surrender and at once there would be infinite peace, but with +surrender must come submission, confession . . . with confession he must +lose the one thing that he desired--Margaret Craven . . . that he might +go and talk to her, watch her, listen to her voice. Meanwhile he must +not think. If he allowed his brain, for an instant, to rest, it was +flooded with the sweeping consciousness of the Presence--always he must +be doing something, his football, his companions, and often at the end +of it all, calmly, quietly, betrayed--hearing above all the clatter that +he might make the gentle accents of that Voice. He remembered that peace +that he had had in St. Martin's Chapel on the day of the discovery of +the body. What he would give to reclaim that now! + +Meanwhile he must battle; must quiet Craven's suspicions, must play +football, join company with men who seemed to him now like shadows. +As he glanced round at them--at Lawrence, Bunning, Galleon +Cardillac--they seemed to have far less existence than the grey shadow +in the outer Court. Sounds passed him like smoke--the lights grew faint +in his eyes . . . he was being drawn out into a world that was all of +ice--black ice stretching to every horizon; on the edge of it, vast +against the night sky, was the Grey Figure, waiting. + +"Come to Me. Tell Me that you will follow Me. I spoke to you in the +wood. You have broken My law. . . ." + +"Lot of piffle," he heard Cardillac's voice from a great distance. +"These freshers are always gassing." The electric light, seen through a +cloud of tobacco smoke, came slowly back to him, dull globes of colour. + +"It's so hot--I'm cutting," he whispered to Cardillac, and slipped out +of the room. + +He climbed to his room, flung back his door and saw that his light was +turned on. + +Facing him, waiting for him, was Bunning. + + +3 + +"If you don't want me----" he began with his inane giggle. + +"Sit down." Olva pulled out the whisky and two siphons of soda. "If I +didn't want you I'd say so." + +He filled himself a strong glass of whisky and soda and began feverishly +to drink. + +Bunning sat down. + +"Don't be such a blooming fool. Take off your gown if you're going to +stop." + +Bunning meekly took off his gown. His spectacles seemed so large that +they swallowed up the rest of his face; the spectacles and the enormous +flat-toed boots were the principal features of Bunning's attire. He sat +down again and gazed at Olva with the eyes of a devoted dog. Olva +looked at him. Over Bunning's red wrists the brown ends of a Jaeger vest +protruded from under the shirt. + +"I say, why don't you dress properly?" + +"I don't know---" began Bunning. + +"Well, the sleeves of your vest needn't come down like that. It looks +horribly dirty. Turn 'em up." + +Bunning, blushing almost to tears, turned them back. + +"There's no need to make yourself worse than you are, you know," Olva +finished his whisky and poured out some more. "Why do you come +here? . . . I'm always beastly to you." + +"As long as you let me come--I don't mind how beastly you are." + +"But what do you get from it?" + +Bunning looked down at his huge boots. + +"Everything. But it isn't that--it is that, without being here, I +haven't got anything else." + +"Well, you needn't wear such boots as that--and your shirts and things +aren't clean. . . . You don't mind my telling you, do you?" + +"No, I like it, Nobody's ever told me." + +Here obviously was a new claim for intimacy and this Olva hurriedly +disavowed. + +"Oh! It's only for your own good, you know. Fellows will like you better +if you're decently dressed. Why hasn't any one ever told you?" + +"They'd given me up at home." Bunning heaved a great sigh. + +"Why? Who are your people?" + +"My father's a parson in Yorkshire. They're all clergymen in my +family--uncles, cousins, everybody--my elder brother. I was to have been +a clergyman." + +"_Was_ to have been? Aren't you going to be one now?" + +"No--not since I met you." + +"Oh, but you mustn't take such a step on my account. I don't want to +prevent you. I've nothing to do with it. I should think you'd make a +very good parson." + +Olva was brutal. He felt that in Bunning's moist devoted eyes there was +a dim pain. But he was brutal because his whole soul revolted against +sentimentality, not at all because his soul revolted against Bunning. + +"No, I shouldn't make a good parson. I never wanted to be one really. +But when your house is full of it, as our house was, you're driven. When +it wasn't relations it was all sorts of people in the parish--helpers +and workers--women mostly. I hated them." + +Here was a real note of passion! Bunning seemed, for an instant, to be +quite vigorous. + +"That's why I'm so untidy now," Bunning went desperately on; "nobody +cared how I looked. I was stupid at school, my reports were awful, and +I was a day boy. It is very bad for any one to be a day boy--very!" he +added reflectively, as though he were recalling scenes and incidents. + +"Yes?" said Olva encouragingly. He was being drawn by Bunning's artless +narration away from the Shadow. It was still there, its arm outstretched +above the snowy court, but Bunning seemed, in some odd way, to +intervene. + +"I always wanted to find God in those days. It sounds a stupid thing +to say, but they used to speak about Him--mother and the rest--just as +though He lived down the street. They knew all about Him and I used to +wonder why I didn't know too. But I didn't. It wasn't real to me. I used +to make myself think that it was, but it wasn't." + +"Why didn't you talk to your mother about it?-- + +"I did. But they were always too busy with missions and things. And then +there was my elder brother. _He_ understood about God and went to all +the Bible meetings and things, and he was always so neat-never dirty--I +used to wonder how he did it . . . always so neat." + +Bunning took off his great spectacles and wiped them with a very dirty +handkerchief. + +"And had you no friends?" + +"None--nobody. I didn't want them after a bit. I was afraid of +everybody. I used to go down all the side-streets between school and +home for fear lest I should meet some one. I was always very nervous as +a boy--very. I still am." + +"Nervous of people?" + +"Yes, of everybody. And of things, too--things. I still am. You'd +be surprised. . . . It's odd because none of the other Bunnings are +nervous. I used to have fancies about God." + +"What sort of fancies?" + +"I used to see Him when I was in bed like a great big shadow, all up +against the wall. A grey shadow with his head ever so high. That's how I +used to think of Him. I expect that all sounds nonsense to you." + +"No, not at all!" said Olva. + +"I think they thought me nearly an idiot at home--not sane at all. But +they didn't think of me very often. They used to apologise for me when +people came to tea. I wasn't clever, of course--that's why they thought +I'd make a good parson." + +He paused--then very nervously he went on. "But now I've met you I +shan't be. Nothing can make me. I've always watched you. I used to look +at you in chapel. You're just as different from me as any one can be, +and that's why you're like God to me. I don't want you to be decent to +me. I think I'd rather you weren't. But I like to come in sometimes and +hear you say that I'm dirty and untidy. That shows that you've noticed." + +"But I'm not at all the sort of person to make a hero of," Olva said +hurriedly. "I don't want you to feel like that about we. That's all +sentimentality. You mustn't feel like that about anybody. You must stand +on your own legs." + +"I never have," said Burning, very solemnly, "and I never will. I've +always had somebody to make a hero of. I would love to die for you, I +would really. It's the only sort of thing that I can do, because I'm not +clever. I know you think me very stupid." + +"Yes, I do," said Olva, "and you mustn't talk like a schoolgirl. If +we're friends and I let you come in here, you mustn't let your vest come +over your cuffs and you must take those spots off your waistcoat, and +brush your hair and clean your nails, and you must just be sensible and +have a little humour. Why don't you play football?" + +"I can't play games, I'm very shortsighted." + +"Well, you must take some sort of exercise. Run round Parker's Piece or +something, or go and run at Fenner's. You'll get so fat." + +"I _am_ getting fat. I don't think it matters much what I look like." + +"It matters what every one looks like. And now you'd better cut. I've +got to go out and see a man." + +Burning submissively rose. He said no more but bundled out of the door +in his usual untidy fashion. Olva came after him and banged his "oak" +behind him. In Outer Court, looking now so vast and solemn in the +silence of its snow, Bunning, stopping, pointed to the grey buildings +that towered over them. + +"It was against a wall like that that I used to imagine God--on a night +like this--you'll think that very silly." He hurriedly added, "There's +Marshall coming. I know he'll be at me about those Christian Union +Cards. Good-night." He vanished. + +But it was not Marshall. It was Rupert Craven. The boy was walking +hurriedly, his eyes on the ground. He was suddenly conscious of some +one and looked up. The change in him was extraordinary. His eyes had +the heavy, dazed look of one who has not slept for weeks. His face was +a yellow white, his hair unbrushed, and his mouth moved restlessly. He +started when he saw Olva. + +"Hallo, Craven. You're looking seedy. What's the matter?" + +"Nothing, thanks. . . . Good-night." + +"No, but wait a minute. Come up to my rooms and have some coffee. I +haven't seen you for days." + +A fortnight ago Craven would have accepted with joy. Now he shook his +head. + +"No, thanks. I'm tired: I haven't been sleeping very well." + +"Why's that? Overwork?" + +"No, it's nothing. I don't know why it is." + +"You ought to see somebody. I know what not sleeping means." + +"Why? . . . Are _you_ sleeping badly?" Craven's eyes met Olva's. + +"No, I'm splendid, thanks. But I had a bout of insomnia years ago. I +shan't forget it." + +"You _look_ all right." Cravan's eyes were busily searching Olva's face. +Then suddenly they dropped. + +"I'm all right," he said hurriedly. "Tired, that's all." + +"Why do you never come and see me now?" + +"Oh, I will come--sometime. I'm busy." + +"What about?" + +Olva stood, a stern dark figure, against the snow. + +"Oh, just busy." Craven suddenly looked up as though he were going to +ask Olva a question. Then he apparently changed his mind, muttered a +good-night and disappeared round the corner of the building. + +Olva was alone in the Court. From some room came the sound of voices and +laughter, from some other room a piano--some one called a name in Little +Court. A sheet of stars drew the white light from the snow to heaven. + +Olva turned very slowly and entered his black stairway. + +In his heart he was crying, "How long can I stand this? Another day? +Another hour? This loneliness. . . . I must break it. I must tell some +one. I _must_ tell some one." + +As he entered his room he thought that he saw against the farther wall +an old gilt mirror and in the light of it a dark figure facing him; a +voice, heavy with some great overburdening sorrow, spoke to him. + +"How terrible a thing it is to be alone with God!" + + + +CHAPTER IX + +REVELATION OF BUNNING (II) + +1 + +The next day the frost broke, and after a practice game on the Saul's +ground, in preparation for a rugby match at the end of the week, Olva, +bathed and feeling physically a fine, overwhelming fitness, went to see +Margaret Craven. + +This sense of his physical well-being was extraordinary. Mentally he +was nearly beaten, almost at the limit of his endurance. Spiritually the +catastrophe hovered more closely above him at every advancing moment, +but, physically, he had never, in all his life before, felt such +magnificent health. He had been sleeping badly now for weeks. He had +been eating very little, but he felt no weariness, no faintness. It +was as though his body were urging upon him the importance of his +resistance, as though he were perceiving, too, with unmistakable +clearness the cleavage that there was between body and soul. And indeed +this vigour _did_ give him an energy to set about the numberless things +that he had arranged to fill every moment of his day--the many little +tinkling bells that he had set going to hide the urgent whisper of that +other voice. He carried his day through with a rush, a whirl, so that +he might be in bed again at night almost before he had finished his +dressing in the morning--no pause, no opportunity for silence. . . . + +And now he must see Margaret Craven, see her for herself, but also see +her to talk to her about her brother. How much did Rupert Craven know? +How much--and here was the one tremendous question--had he told his +sister? As Olva waited, once again, in the musty hall, saw once more the +dim red glass of the distant window, smelt again the scent of oranges, +his heart was beating so that he could not hear the old woman's +trembling voice. How would Margaret receive him? Would there be in her +eyes that shadow of distrust that he always saw now in Rupert's? His +knees were trembling and he had to stay for an instant and pull himself +together before he crossed the drawing-room threshold. + +And then he was, instantly, reassured. Margaret was alone in the dim +room, and as she came to meet him he saw in her approach to him that +she had been wanting him. In her extended hands he found a welcome that +implied also a need. He felt, as he met her and greeted her and looked +again into the grave, tender eyes that he had been wanting so badly ever +since he had seen them last, that there was nothing more wonderful than +the way that their relationship advanced between every meeting. They +met, exchanged a word or two and parted, but in the days that separated +them their spirits seemed to leap together, to crowd into lonely hours a +communion that bound them more closely than any physical intimacy could +do. + +"Oh! I'm so glad you've come. I had hoped it, wanted it." + +He sat down close to her, his dark eyes on her face. + +"You're in trouble? I can see." + +She bent her eyes gravely on the fire, and as slowly she tried to put +together the things that she wished to say he felt, in her earnest +thoughtfulness, a rest, a relief, so wonderful that it was like plunging +his body into cool water after a long and arid journey. + +"No, it is nothing. I don't want to make things more overwhelming than +they are. Only, it is, I think, simply that during these last days when +mother and Rupert have both been ill, I have been overwhelmed." + +"Rupert?" + +"Yes, we'll come to him in a moment. You must remember," she smiled up +at him as she said it, "that I'm not the least the kind of person who +makes the best of things--in fact I'm not a useful person at all. I +suppose being abroad so long with my music spoiled me, but whatever it +is I seem unable to wrestle with things. They frighten me, overwhelm me, +as I say . . . I'm frightened now." + +He looked up at her last word and caught a corner reflection in the old +gilt mirror--a reflection of a multitude of little things; silver boxes, +photograph frames, old china pots, little silk squares, lying like +scattered treasures from a wreck on a dark sea. + +"What are you frightened about?" + +"Well, there it is--nothing I suppose. Only I'm not good at managing +sick people, especially when there's nothing definitely the matter with +them. It's a case with all three of us--a case of nerves." + +"Well, that's as serious a thing as any other disease." + +"Yes, but I don't know what to do with it. Mother lies there all day. +She seldom speaks, she scarcely eats anything. She entirely refuses to +have a doctor. But worse than that is the extraordinary feeling that +she has had during this last week about Rupert. She refuses to see him," +Margaret Craven finally brought out. + +"Refuses?" + +"Yes, she says that he is altered to her. She says that he will not let +her alone, that he is imagining things. Poor Rupert is most terribly +distressed. He is imagining nothing. He would do anything for her, he is +devoted to her." + +"Since when has she had this idea?" + +"You remember the day that you came last? when Rupert came in and had +found your matchbox. It began about then. . . . Of course Rupert has +not been well--he has never been well since that dreadful death of Mr. +Carfax, and certainly since that day when you were here I think that +he's been worse--strange, utterly unlike himself, sleeping badly, eating +nothing. Poor, poor Rupert, I would do anything for him, for them +both, but I am so utterly, utterly useless, What can I do?" she finally +appealed to him. + +"You said once," he answered her slowly, "that I could help you. If you +still feel that, tell me, and I will do anything, anything. You know +that I will do anything." + +They came together, in that terrible room, like two children out of the +dark. He suddenly caught her hand and she let him hold it. Then, very +gently, she withdrew it. + +"I think that you can make all the difference," she answered slowly. +"Mother often speaks of you. I told you before that she wants so much to +see you, and if you would do that, if you would go up, for just a little +time, and sit with her, I believe you would soothe her as no one else +can. I don't know why I feel that, but I know that she feels it too. You +_are_ restful," she said suddenly, with a smile, flung up at him. + +And again, as on the earlier occasion, he shrank from the thing that she +asked him. He had felt, from the very moment this afternoon that he had +entered the house, that that thing would be asked of him. Mrs. Craven +wanted him. He could feel the compulsion of her wish drawing him through +walls and floors and all the obstructions of the world. + +"Of course I'll go," he said. + +"Ah! that will help. It would be so good of you. Poor mother, it's +lonely for her up there all day, and I know that she thinks about +things, about father, and it's not good for her. You might perhaps say +a word too about Rupert. I cannot imagine what it is that she is feeling +about him." She paused, and then with a sigh, rising from their chair, +longingly brought out, "Oh! but for all of us! to get away--out of this +house, out of this place, that's the thing we want!" + +She stood there in her black dress, so simply, so appealingly before +him, that it was all that he could do not to catch her in his arms and +bold her. He did indeed rise and stand beside her, and there in silence, +with the dim room about them, the oppressive silence so ominous +and sinister, they came together with a closeness that no earlier +intercourse had given them. + +Olva seemed, for a short space, to be relieved from his burdens. For +them both, so young, so helpless against powers that were ruthless in +the accomplishment of wider destinies, they were allowed to find in +these silent minutes a brief reprieve. + +Then, with the sudden whirring and shrill clatter of an ancient clock, +action began again, but before the striking hour had entirely died away, +he said to her, "Whatever happens, we are, at any rate, friends. We can +snatch a moment together even out of the worst catastrophe." + +"You're afraid . . . ?" Her breath caught, as she flung a look about the +room. + +"One never knows." + +"It is all so strange. There in Dresden everything was so happy, so +undisturbed, the music and one's friends; it was all so natural. And +now--here--with Rupert and mother--it's like walking in one's sleep." + +"Well, I'll walk with you," he assured her. + +But indeed that was exactly what it _was_ like, he thought, as he +climbed the old and creaking stairs. How often had one dreamed of the +old dark house, the dusty latticed windows, the stairs with the gaping +boards, at last that thin dark passage into which doors so dimly opened, +that had black chasms at either end of it, whose very shadows seemed +to demand the dripping of some distant water and the shudder of some +trembling blind. In a dream too there was that sense of inevitability, +of treading unaccustomed ways with an assured, accustomed tread that +was with him now. The old woman who had conducted him stopped at a door, +hidden by the dusk, and knocked. She opened it and wheezed out-- + +"Mr. Dune, m'am;" and then, standing back for him to pass, left him +inside. + +As the door closed he was instantly conscious of an overwhelming desire +for air, a longing to fling open the little diamond-paned window. The +ceiling was very low and a fierce fire burned in the fireplace. There +was little furniture, only a huge white bed hovered in the background. +Olva was conscious of a dark figure lying on a low chair by the fire, a +figure that gave you instantly those long white hands and those burning +eyes and gave you afterwards more slowly the rest of the outline. But +its supreme quality was its immobility. That head, that body, those +hands, never moved, only behind its dark outline the bright fire +crackled and flung its shadows upon the wall. + +"I am sorry that you are not so well." + +Mrs. Craven's dark eyes searched his face. "You are restful to me. I +like you to come. But I would not intrude upon your time." + +Olva said, "I am very glad to come if I can be of any service. If there +is anything that I can do." + +The eyes seemed the only part of her body that lived. It was the eyes +that spoke. "No, there is nothing that any one can do. I do not care for +talking. Soon I will be downstairs again, I hope. It is lonely for my +daughter." + +"There is Rupert." + +At the mention of the name her eyes were suddenly sheathed. It was like +the instant quenching of some light. She did not answer him. + +"Tell me about yourself. What you do, what you care about . . . your +life." + +He told her a little about his home, his father, but he had a strange, +overwhelming conviction that she already knew. He felt, also, that she +regarded these things that he told her as preliminaries to something +else that he would presently say. He paused. + +"Yes?" she said. + +"I am tiring you. I have talked enough. It is time for me to be back in +College." + +She did not contradict him. She watched him as he said good-bye. For +one moment he touched her chill, unresponsive hand, for an instant their +eyes, dark, sombre, met. The thought flew to his brain, "My God, how +lonely she is . . ." and then, "My God, how lonely I am." Slowly and +quietly he closed the door behind him. + + +2 + +That night the Shadow was nearer, more insistent; the closer it came +the more completely was the real world obscured. This obscurity was now +shutting oil from him everything; it was exactly as though his whole +body bad been struck numb so that he might touch, might hold, but +could feel nothing. Again it was as though he were confined in a damp, +underground cell and the world above his head was crying out with life +and joy. In his hand was the key of the door; he had only to use it. + +Submission--to be taken into those arms, to be told gently what he +must do, and then--Obedience--perhaps public confession, perhaps death, +struggling, ignominious death . . . at least, never again Margaret +Craven, never again her companionship, her understanding, never again +to help her and to feel that warm sure clasp of her hand. What would she +say, what would she do if she were told? That remained for him now the +one abiding question. But he could not doubt what she would do. He saw +the warmth fading from the eyes, the hard stern lines settling about the +mouth, the cold stiffening of her whole body. No, she must never know, +and if Rupert discovered the truth, he, Olva, must force him, for his +sister's sake, to keep silence. But if Rupert knew he would tell his +sister, and she would believe him. No use denials then. + +And on the side of it all was the Shadow, with him now, with him in the +room. + + All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me. + +The line from some poem came to him. It was true, true. His life that +had been the life of a man was now the life of a Liar--Liar to his +friends, Liar to Margaret, Liar to all the world--so his shuddering +soul cowered there, naked, creeping into the uttermost corner to escape +the Presence. + +If only for an hour he might be again himself---might shout aloud the +truth, boast of it, triumph in it, be naked in the glory of it. Day +by day the pressure had been increased, day by day his loneliness had +grown, day by day the pursuit had drawn closer. + +And now he hardly recognized the real from the false. He paced his room +frantically. He felt that on the other side of the bedroom door there +was terror. He had turned on all his lights; a furious fire was blazing +in the grate; beyond the windows cold stars and an icy moon, but in here +stifling heat. + +When Bunning (the clocks were striking eleven) came blinking in upon him +he was muttering--"Let me go, let me go. I killed him, I tell you. I'm +glad I killed him. . . . Oh! Let me alone! For pity's sake let me alone! +I _can't_ confess! Don't you see that I can't confess? There's Margaret. +I must keep her---afterwards when she knows me better I'll tell her." + +As he faced Bunning's staring glasses, the thought came to Him, "Am I +going mad?--Has it been too much for me?---Mad?" + +He stopped, wheeled round, caught the table with both hands, and leaned +over to Bunning, who stood, his mouth open, his cap and gown still on. + +Olva very gravely said: "Come in, Bunning. Shut the door. 'Sport' it. +That's right. Take off your gown and sit down." + +The man, still staring, white and frightened, sat down. + +Olva spoke slowly and very distinctly: "I'm glad you've come. I want to +talk to you. I killed Carfax, you know." As he said the words he began +slowly to come back to himself from the Other World to this one. How +often, sleeping, waking, had he said those words! How often, aloud, in +his room, with his door locked, had he almost shouted them! + +He was not now altogether sure whether Bunning were really there or no. +His spectacles were there, his boots were there, but was Bunning there? +If he were not there. . . . + +But he _was_ there. Olva's brain slowly cleared and, for the first time +for many weeks, he was entirely himself. It was the first moment of +peace that he had known since that hour in St. Martin's Chapel. + +He was quiet, collected, perfectly calm. He went over to the window, +opened it, and rejoiced in the breeze. The room seemed suddenly empty. +Five minutes ago it had been crowded, breathless. There was now only +Bunning. + +"It was so awfully hot with that enormous fire," he said. + +Bunning's condition was peculiar. He sat, his large fat face white and +streaky, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands gripping the +sides of the armchair. His boots stuck up in the most absurd manner, +like interrogation marks. He watched Olva's face fearfully. At last he +gasped-- + +"I say, Dune, you're ill. You are really--you're overdone. You ought to +see some one, you know. You ought really, you ought to go to bed." His +words came in jerks. + +Olva crossed the room and stood looking down upon him. + +"No, Bunning, I'm perfectly well. . . . There's nothing the matter with +me. My nerves have been a bit tried lately by this business, keeping it +all alone, and it's a great relief to me to have told you." + +The fact forced itself upon Bunning's brain. At last in a husky whisper: +"You . . . killed . . . Carfax?" And then the favourite expression of +such weak souls as he: "Oh! my God! Oh! my God!" + +"Now look here, don't get hysterical about it. You've got to take it +quietly as I do. You said the other day you'd do anything for me. . . . +Well, now you've got a chance of proving your devotion." + +"My God! My God!" The boots feebly tapped the floor. + +"I had to tell somebody. It was getting on my nerves. I suppose it gives +you a kind of horror of me. Don't mind saying so if it does." + +Bunning, taking out a grimy handkerchief, wiped his forehead. He shook +his head without speaking. + +Olva sat down in the chair opposite him and lit his pipe. + +"I want to tell somebody all about it. You weren't really, I suppose, +the best person to tell. You're a hysterical sort of fellow and you're +easily frightened, but you happened to come in just when I was rather +worked up about it. At any rate you've got to face it now and you must +pull yourself together as well as you can. . . . Move away from the +fire, if you're hot." + +Bunning shook his head. + +Olva continued: "I'm going to try to put it quite plainly to you, the +Carfax part of it I mean. There are other things that have happened +since that I needn't bother you with, but I'd like you to understand why +I did it." + +"Oh! my God!" said Bunning. He was trembling from head to foot and his +fat hands rattled on the woodwork of the chair and his feet rattled on +the floor. + +"I met Carfax first at my private school---a little, fat dirty boy he +was then, and fat and dirty he's been ever since. I hated him, but I was +always pleasant to him. He wasn't worth being angry with. He always did +rotten things. He knew more filthy things than the other boys, and he +was a bully--a beastly bully. I think he knew that I bated him, but we +were on perfectly good terms. I think he was always a little afraid +of me, but it's curious to remember that we never had a quarrel of any +kind, until the day when I killed him." + +Olva paused and asked Bunning to have a drink. Bunning, gazing at him +with desperate eyes, shook his head. + +"Then we went on to Rugby together. It's odd how Fate has apparently +been determined to hammer out our paths side by side. Carfax grew more +and more beastly. He always did the filthiest things and yet out of +it all seemed to the world at large a perfectly decent fellow. He was +clever in that way. I am not trying to defend myself. I'm making it +perfectly straightforward and just as it really was. He knew that I knew +him better than anybody, and as we went on at Rugby I think that his +fear of me grew. I didn't hate him so much for being Carfax, but rather +as standing for all sorts of rotten things. It didn't matter to me in +the least whether he was a beast or not, I'm a beast myself, but it did +matter that he should smile about it and have damp hands. When I touched +his hand I always wanted to hit him. + +"I've got a very sudden temper, all my family are like that--calm +most of the time and then absolutely wild. I hated him more up here +at College than I'd hated him at school. He developed and still his +reputation was just the same, decent fellows like Craven followed him, +excused him; he had that cheery manner. . . . Hating him became a habit +with me. I hated everything that he did--his rolling walk down the +Court, his red colour, his football . . . and then he ruined that fellow +Thompson. That was a poor game, but no one seemed to think anything of +it . . . and indeed he and I seemed to be very good friends. He used to +sneer at me behind my back, I know, but I didn't mind that. Any one's +at liberty to sneer if they like. But he was really afraid of me . . . +always. + +"Then at last there was this girl that he set about destroying. He +seduced her, promised her marriage. I knew all about it, because she +used to be rather a friend of mine. I warned her, but she was absolutely +infatuated--wouldn't hear of anything that I had to say, thought it all +jealousy. She wasn't the kind of girl who could stand disgrace. . . . +She came to him one day and told him that she was going to have a baby. +He laughed at her in the regular old conventional way . . . and that +very afternoon, after he had seen her, he met me--there in Sannet Wood. + +"He began to boast about it, told me jokingly about the way that he'd +'shut her mouth,' as he called it . . . laughed . . . I hit him. I meant +to hit him hard, I hated him so; I think that I wanted to kill him. +All the accumulated years were in that blow, I suppose; at any rate, I +caught him on the chin and it broke his neck and he dropped . . . that's +all." + +Olva paused, finished his drink, and ended with-- + +"There it is--it's simple enough. I'm not in the least sorry I killed +him. I've no regrets; he was better out of the world than in it, and +I've probably saved a number of people from a great deal of misery. I +thought at first that I should be caught, but they aren't very sharp +round here and there was really nothing to connect me with it. But there +were other things--there's more in killing a man than the mere killing. +I haven't been able to stand the loneliness---so I told you." + +The last words brought him back to Bunning, a person whom he had almost +forgotten. A sudden pity for the man's distress made his voice tender. +"I say, Running, I oughtn't to have told you. It's been too much for +you. But if you knew the relief that it is to me. . . . Though, mind +you, if it's on your conscience, if it burdens you, you must 'out' with +it. Don't have any scruples about me. But it needn't burden you. _You_ +hadn't any-thing to do with it. You were here and I told you. That's +all. I've shown you that I want you as a friend." + +For answer the creature burst suddenly into tears, hiding his face +in his sleeve, as small boys hide their faces, and choking out +desperately-- + +"Oh! my God! Oh! my God!" + + + +CHAPTER X + +CRAVEN + +1 + +That evening Olva was elected President of the Wolves. It was a ceremony +conducted with closed doors and much drinking of wine, by a committee +of four and the last reigning President who had the casting vote. The +College waited in suspense and at eleven o'clock it was understood that +Dune had been elected. + +According to custom, on the day following in "Hall" Olva would be +cheered by the assembled undergraduates whilst the gods on the dais +smiled gently and murmured that "boys will be boys." + +Meanwhile the question that agitated the Sauline world was the way that +Cardillac would take it. "If it had been any one else but Dune . . ." +but it couldn't have been any one else. There was no other possible +rival, and "Cards," like the rest of the world, bowed to Dune's charm. +The Dublin match, to be played now in a fortnight's time, would settle +the football question. It was generally expected that they would try +Dune in that match and judge him finally then on his play. There was a +good deal of betting on the matter, and those who remembered his earlier +games said that nothing could ever make Dune a reliable player and that +it was a reliable player that was wanted. + +When Olva came into "Hall" that evening he was conscious of two pairs +of eyes, Craven's and Bunning's. On either side of the high vaulted hall +the tables were ranged, and men, shouting, waving their glasses, lined +the benches. Olva's place was at the end farthest from the door and +nearest the High Table, and he had therefore the whole room to cross. +He was smiling a little, a faint colour in his cheeks. At his own end of +the table Craven was standing, silent, with his eyes gravely fixed upon +Olva's face. Half-way down the hall there was Bunning, and Olva could +see, as he passed up the room, that the man was trembling and was +pressing his hands down upon the table to hold his body still. + +When Olva had sat down and the cheering had passed again into the +cheerful hum that was customary, the first voice that greeted him was +Cardillac's. + +"Congratulations, old man. I'm delighted." + +There was no question of Cardillac's sincerity. Craven was sitting four +places lower down; he had turned the other way and was talking eagerly +to some man on his farther side--but the eyes that had met Olva's two +minutes before had been hostile. + +Cardillac went on: "Come in to coffee afterwards, Dune; several men are +coming in." + +Olva thanked him and said that he would. The world was waiting to see +how "Cards" would take it, and, beyond question, "Cards" was taking it +very well. Indeed an observer might have noticed that "Cards" was too +absorbed by the way that Dune was "taking it" to "take it" himself +consciously at all. Olva's aloof surveying of the world about him, as a +man on a hill surveys the town in the valley, made of "Cards'" last year +and a half a gaudy and noisy thing. He had thought that his attitude had +been nicely adjusted, but now he saw that there were still heights to be +reached--perhaps in this welcome that he was giving to Dune's success +he might attain his position. . . . Not, in any way, a bad fellow, this +Cardillac--but obsessed by a self-conscious conviction that the world +was looking at him; the world never looks for more than an instant at +self-consciousness, but it dearly loves self-forgetfulness, for that +implies a compliment to itself. + +Afterwards, in Cardillac's handsome and over-careful rooms, there was +an attempt at depth. The set--Lawrence, Galleon, Craven and five or six +more--never thought about Life unless drink drove them to do so, and +drink drove them to-night. A long, thin man, Williamson by name, with a +half-Blue for racquets and a pensive manner, had a favourite formula on +these occasions: "But think of a rabbit now . . ." only conveying by the +remark that here was a proof of God's supreme, astounding carelessness. +"You shoot it, you know, without turning a hair (no joke, you rotter), +and it breeds millions a week . . . and--does it think about it, that's +what I want to know? Where's its soul? + +"Hasn't got a soul. . . ." + +"Well, what _is_ the soul, anyway?" + +There you are-the thing's properly started, and the more the set drinks +the vaguer it gets until finally it goes happily to bed and wakes with a +headache and a healthy opinion that "Religion and that sort of stuff is +rot" in the morning. That is precisely as far as intellect ever ventured +in Saul's. There may have been quaint obscure fellows who sported their +oaks every night and talked cleverly on ginger-beer, but they were +not admitted as part of the scheme of things. . . . Saulines, to quote +Lawrence, "are _not_ clever." + +They were not especially clever to-night, thought Olva, as he sat in the +shadow away from the light of the fire and watched them sitting back in +enormous armchairs, with their legs stretched out, blowing wreaths of +smoke into the air, drinking whiskies and sodas . . . no, not clever. + +Craven, the shadows blacker than ever under his eyes, was on the +opposite side of the room from Olva. He sat with his head down and was +silent. + +"Think of a rabbit now," said Williamson. + +"I suppose," said Galleon, who was not gifted, "that they're happy +enough." + +"Yes, but what do they _make_ of it all?" + +At this moment Craven suddenly burst in with "Where's Carfax?" + +This question was felt by every one to be tactless. Elaborately, +with great care and some considerable effort, Carfax had been +forgotten--forgotten, it seemed, by every one save Craven. He had been +forgotten because his death did not belong to the Cambridge order of +things, because it raised unpleasant ideas, and made one morbid and +neurotic. It had, in fact, nothing in common with cold baths, marmalade, +rugby football, and musical comedy. + +On the present occasion the remark was especially unpleasant because +Craven had made it in so odd a manner. During the last few weeks it +had been very generally noticed that Craven had not been himself--so +pleasant and healthy a fellow he had always been, but now this Carfax +business was too much for him. "Look out for young Craven" had been the +general warning, implied if not expressed. Persons who threatened to be +unusual were always marked down in Cambridge. + +And now Craven _had_ been unusual--"Where's Carfax?" . . . What a +dreadful thing to say and how tactless! The note, moreover, in Craven's +voice sounded a danger. There was something in the air as though the +fellow might, at any moment, burst into tears, fire a pistol into the +air, or jump out of the window! So unpleasant, and Carfax was much more +real, even now, than an abstract rabbit. + +"Dear boy," said Cardillac, easily, "Carfax is dead. We all miss him--it +was a beastly, horrible affair, but there's no point in dwelling on +things; one only gets morbid, and morbidity isn't what we're here for." + +"It's all very well," Craven was angrily muttering, "but it's scandalous +the way you forget a man. Here he was, amongst the whole lot of you, +only a month or so ago and he was a friend of every one's. And then some +brute kills him--he's done for--and you don't care a damn . . . it's +beastly--it makes one sick." + +"Where do _you_ think he is, Craven?" Olva asked quietly from his +shadowy corner. + +Craven flung up his head. "Perhaps _you_ can tell us," he cried. There +was such hostility in his voice that the whole room was startled. Poor +Craven! He really was very unwell. The sight of his tired eyes and white +cheeks, the shadow of his hand quivering on his knee--here were +signs that all was not as it should be. Gone, now, at any rate, any +possibility of a comfortable evening. Craven said no more but still sat +there with his head banging, his only movement the shaking of his hand. + +Cardillac tried to bring ease back again, Williamson once more started +his rabbits, but now there was danger in that direction. Conversation +fell, heavily, helplessly, to the ground. Some man got up to go and some +one else followed him. It was the wrong moment for departure for they +had drunk enough to make it desirable to drink more, but to escape from +that white face of Craven's was the thing--out into the air. + +At last Craven himself got up. "I must be off," he said heavily. + +"So must I," Olva said, coming forward from his corner. Craven flung him +a frightened glance and then passed stumbling out of the door. + +Olva caught him up at the bottom of the dark stairs. He put a hand on +Craven's trembling arm and held him there. + +"I want to talk to you, Craven. Come up to my room." + +Craven tried to wrench his arm away. "No, I'm tired. I want to go to +bed." + +"You haven't been near me for weeks. Why?" + +"Oh, nothing--let me go. I'll come up another time." + +"No, I _must_ talk to you--now. Come." Olva's voice was stern--his face +white and hard. + +"No--I won't." + +"You must. I won't keep you long. I have something to tell you." + +Craven suddenly ceased to struggle. He gazed straight into Olva's eyes, +and the look that he gave him was the strangest thing--something of +terror, something of anger, a great wonder, and even--strangest of +all!--a struggling affection. + +"I'll come," he said. + +In Olva's room he stood, a disturbed figure facing the imperturbability +of the other man with restless eyes and hands that moved up and down +against his coat. Olva commanded the situation, with stern eyes he +seemed to be the accuser. . . . + +"Sit down--fill a pipe." + +"No, I won't sit--what do you want?" + +"Please sit. It's so much easier for us both to talk. I can't say the +things that I want to when you're standing over me. Please sit down." + +Craven sat down. + +Olva faced him. "Now look here, Craven, a little time ago you came and +wished that we should see a good deal of one another. You came in here +often and you took me to see your people. You were charming . . . I was +delighted to be with you." + +Olva paused--Craven said nothing. + +"Then suddenly, for no reason that I can understand, this changed. Do +you remember that afternoon when you had tea with me here and I went to +sleep? It was after that--you were never the same after that. And it has +been growing worse. Now you avoid me altogether--you don't speak to me +if you can help it. I'm not a man of many friends and I don't wish to +lose one without knowing first what it is that I have done. Will you +tell me what it is?" + +Craven made no answer. His eyes passed restlessly up and down the room +as though searching for some way of escape. He made little choking +noises in his throat. When Olva had had no answer to his question, he +went gravely on-- + +"But it isn't only your attitude to me that matters, although I _do_ +want you to explain that. But I want you also to tell me what the damage +is. You're most awfully unwell. You're an utterly different man--changed +entirely during the last week or two, and we've all noticed it. But +it doesn't only worry us here; it worries your mother and sister too. +You've no right to keep it to yourself." + +"There's nothing the matter." + +"Of course there is. A man doesn't alter in a day for nothing, and I +date it all from that evening when you had tea with me, and I can't help +feeling that it's something that I can clear up. If it _is_ anything +that I can do, if I can clear your bother up in any way, you have only +to tell me. And," he added slowly, "I think at least that you owe me an +explanation of your own personal avoidance of me. No man has any right +to drop a friend without giving his reasons. You know that, Craven." + +Craven suddenly raised his weary eyes. "I never was a friend of yours. +We were acquaintances--that's all." + +"You made me a friend of your mother and sister. I demand an +explanation, Craven." + +"There is no explanation. I'm not well--out of condition." + +"Why?" + +"Why is a fellow ever out of condition? I've been working too hard, I +suppose. . . . But you said you'd got something to tell me. What have +you got to tell me?" + +"Tell me first what is troubling you." + +"No." + +"You refuse?" + +"Absolutely." + +"Then I have nothing to tell you." + +"Then you brought me in here on a lie. I should never have come if---" + +"Yes?" + +"If I hadn't thought you had something to tell me." + +"What should I have to tell you?" + +"I don't know . . . nothing." + +There was a pause, and then with a sudden surprising force, Craven +almost appealed-- + +"Dune, you _can_ help me. You can make a great difference. I _am_ +ill; it's quite true. I'm not myself a bit and I'm tortured by +imaginations--awful things. I suppose Carfax has got on my nerves and +I've had absurd fancies. You _can_ help me if you'll just answer me one +question--only one. I don't want to know anything else, I'll never +ask you anything else--only this. Where were you on the afternoon that +Carfax was murdered?" + +He brought it out at last, his hands gripping the sides of his chair, +all the agonized uncertainty of the last few weeks in his voice. Olva +faced him, standing above him, and looking down upon him. + +"My dear Craven--what an odd question--why do you want to know?" + +"Well, finding your matchbox like that--there in Sannet Wood--and I know +you must have lost it just about then because I remember your looking +for it here. I thought that perhaps you might have seen somebody, had +some kind of suspicion. . . ." + +"Well, I _was_, as a matter of fact, there that very afternoon. I walked +through the wood with Bunker--rather late. I met no one during the whole +of the time." + +"No one?" + +"No one." + +"You have no suspicion?" + +"No suspicion." + +The boy relapsed from his eagerness into his heavy dreary indifference. +His lips were working. Olva seemed to catch the words--"Why should it be +I? Why should it be I?" Olva came over to him and placed his hand on his +shoulder. + +"Look here, old man, I don't know what's the matter with you, but it's +plain enough that you've got this Carfax business on your nerves--drop +it. It does no good--it's the worst thing in the world to brood about. +Carfax is dead--if I could help you to find his murderer I would--but I +can't." + +Craven's whole body was trembling under Olva's hand. Olva moved back to +his chair. + +"Craven, listen to me. You _must_ listen to me." Then, speaking very +slowly he brought out-"I _have_ a right to speak to you--a great right. +I wish to marry your sister." + +Craven started up from his chair. + +"No, no," he cried. "You! Never, so long as I can prevent it." + +"You have no right to say that," Olva answered him sternly, "until you +have given me your reasons. I don't know that she cares a pin about +me--I don't suppose that she does. But she will. I'm going to do my very +best to marry her." + +Craven broke away to the middle of the room. His body was shaking with +passion and he flung out his hand as though to ward off Olva from him. + +"You to marry my sister! My God, I will prevent it--I will tell her--" +He caught himself up suddenly. + +"What will you tell her?" + +Then Craven collapsed. He stood there, rocking on his feet, his hands +covering his face. + +"It's all too awful," he moaned. "It's all too awful." + +For a wonderful moment Olva felt that he was about to tell Craven +everything. A flood of words rose to his lips--he seemed, for an +instant, to be rising with a great joyous freedom, as did Christian when +he had dropped his burden, to a new honesty, a high deliverance. + +Then he remembered Margaret Craven. + +"You take my advice, Craven, and get your nerves straight. They're in a +shocking condition." + +Craven went to the door and turned. + +"You can tell nothing?" + +"Nothing." + +"I will never rest until I know who murdered Carfax." + +He closed the door behind him and was gone. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +FIFTH OF NOVEMBER + +1 + +That attempt to make Craven speak his mind was Olva's last plunge into +the open. He saw now, with a clarity that was like the sudden lifting of +some blind before a lighted window, that he had been beguiled, betrayed. +He had thought that his confession to Bunning would stay the pursuit. He +saw now that it was the Pursuer Himself who had instigated it. With that +confession the grey shadow had drawn nearer, had made one degree more +certain the ultimate capitulation. + +For Bunning was surely the last person to be told--with every hour that +became clearer. There were now about four weeks before the end of term. +The Dublin match was to be on the first Tuesday of December, two days +before every one went down, and between the two dates--this 5th of +November and that 2nd of December--the position must be held. . . . + +The terror of the irresistible impulse now never left Olva. He had told +Bunning in a moment of uncontrol--what might he not do now at any time? +At one instant to be absolutely silent seemed the only resource, at the +next to rush out and take part in all the life about him. Were he silent +he was tortured by the silence, if he flung himself amongst his fellow +men every hour threatened self-betrayal. + +What, moreover, was happening in the house in Rocket Road? Craven was +only waiting for certainty and at any moment some chance might give him +what he needed. What did Mrs. Craven know? + +Margaret . . . Margaret . . . Margaret---Olva took the thought of +her in his hand and held it like a sword, against the forces that were +crowding in upon him. + +The afternoon of November 5 was thick with fog so that the shops were +lighted early and every room was dim and unreal, and a sulphurous smell +weighted the air. After "Hall" Olva came back to his room and found +Bunning, his white face peering out of the foggy mist like a dull moon +from clouds, waiting for him. All day there had hung about Olva heavy +depression. It had seemed so ugly and sinister a world--the fog had been +crowded with faces and terror, and the dreadful overpowering impression +of unreality that had been increasing with every day now took from +his companions all life and made of them grinning masks. He remembered +Margaret's cry, "It is like walking in a dream," and echoed it. Surely +it _was_ a dream! He would wake one happy morning and find that he had +invited Craven and Carfax to breakfast, and he would hear them, whilst +he dressed, talking together in the outer room, and, later, he would +pass Bunning in the Court without knowing him. He would be introduced +one day to Margaret Craven and find the house in which she lived a +charming comfortable place, full of light and air, with a croquet lawn +at the back of it, and Mrs. Craven, a nice ordinary middle-aged woman, +stout possibly and fond of gossip. And instead of being President of the +Wolves and a person of importance in the College he would be once again +his old self, knowing nobody, scornful of the whole world and of the +next world as well. And this brought him up with a terrible awakening. +No, that old reality could never be real again, for that old reality +meant a world without God. God had come and had turned the world into +a nightmare . . . or was it only his rebellion against God that had so +made it? But the nightmare was there, the awful uncertainty of every +word, of every step, because with the slightest movement he might +provoke the shadow to new action, if anything so grave, so stern, so +silent as that Pursuit could be termed action, and . . . it was odd how +certainly he knew it . . . so kind. Bunning's face brought him to the +sudden necessity of treating the nightmare as reality, for the moment at +any rate. The staring spectacles piteously appealed to him-- + +"I can't stand it--I can't stand it." + +"Hush!" Olva held his hand, and out of the fog, below in the Court, a +voice was calling--"Craven! Craven! Buck up, you old ass!" + +"They're going to light bonfires and things," Bunning quavered, and +then, with a hand that had always before seemed soft and flabby but +that was now hard and burning, he caught Olva's wrist. "I had to see +you--I've been three days now--waiting--all the time for them to come +and arrest you. Oh! I've imagined everything--everything--and the fog +makes it worse. . . . Oh! my God! I can't stand it." + +The man was on the edge of hysteria. His senseless giggle threatened +that in another instant it would be beyond all control. There was no +time to be lost. Olva took him by the shoulders, held him firmly and +looked straight into the weak, quivering eyes that were behind the +glasses like fish in a tank. + +"Look here, Bunning. Pull yourself together. You _must_--you _must_. +Do you understand? If you've never done it before you must do it now. +Remember that you wanted to help me. Well, now you can do it--but +remember that if you give way so that people notice you, then the show's +up. They'll be asking questions--they'll watch you--and you'll have +done for me. Otherwise there's no risk whatever--no risk whatever. Just +remember that--it's as though I'd never done anything; everything's +going on in its usual way; life will always be just the same . . . if +you'll keep hold of yourself--do you understand? Do you hear me?" + +Bunning's quavering voice answered him, "I'll try." + +"Well, look here. Think of it quite calmly, naturally. You're taking +it like a story that you'd read in a magazine or a play you'd seen at a +theatre--melodrama with all the lights on and every one screaming. Well, +it can be like that if you want it. Every one thinks of murder that way +and you can go shrieking to the Dean and have the rope round my neck in +a minute. But I want you to think of it as the most ordinary thing +in the world. Remember no one knows but yourself, and they won't know +either if you behave in a natural sort of way." Then suddenly his voice +sank to a growl and he caught the man's hands in his and held the whole +quivering body in his control--"Quiet!" he muttered, "Quiet!" + +Bunning had begun to laugh--quite helplessly, almost noiselessly--only +his fat cheeks were quivering and his mouth foolishly, weakly smiling: +his eyes seemed to be disconnected from his body and to be protesting +against it. They looked out like a prisoner from behind barred windows. +The body began to shake from head to foot-ripples of noiseless laughter +shook his fat limbs, then suddenly he began . . . peal upon peal. . . +the tears came rolling down, the mouth was loosely trembling, and still +only the eyes, in a kind of sad, stupid wonder, protested. + +Olva seized his throat-"Stop it, you damned fool!" . . . He looked +straight into the eyes--Bunning ceased as suddenly as he had begun. The +horrible, helpless noise fell with a giggle into silence; he collapsed +into a chair and hid his face in his hands. + +There was a long pause. Olva gazed at the bending figure, summoning all +his will power to hold the shaking thing in control. He waited. Then, +softly, he began again. "Bunning, I did you a great wrong when I told +you--you're not up to it." + +From behind the hands there came a muffled voice--"I _am_ up to it." + +"This sort of thing makes it impossible." + +"It shall never happen again." Bunning lifted his tear-stained face. +"It's been coming for days. I've been so dreadfully frightened. But +now--that I've been with you--it's better, much better. If only--" and +his voice caught--"if only--no one suspects." + +Olva gravely answered, "No one suspects." + +"If I thought that any one--that there was any chance--that any one had +an idea. . . ." + +Craven's voice was echoing in Olva's ears. He answered again-- + +"No one has the slightest suspicion." + +Bunning got up heavily from the chair--"I shall be better now. It's been +so awful having a secret. I never could keep one. I always used to do +wrong things at home and then tell them and then get punished. But I +will try. But if I thought that they guessed--" There was a rap on the +door and Bunning gasped, stepped back against the wall, his face white, +his knees trembling. + +"Don't be such a fool," Olva said fiercely. "If you're like that every +time any one knocks you may as well chuck it at once. Look sensible, +man. Pull yourself together." + +Lawrence entered, bringing log with him from the stairs. His big, +thick-set body was so reassuring, so healthy in its sturdiness, so +strange a contrast to the trembling figure against the wall that Olva +felt an immense relief. + +"You know Bunning, Lawrence?" + +"How do?" + +Lawrence gripped Bunning's fingers, nodded to Bunning's stumbling words +and smiled genially. + +Bunning got to the door, blinked upon them both from behind his glasses +and was gone--muttering something about "work . . . letters to write." + +"Rum feller," said Lawrence, and dismissed him with a chuckle. +"Shouldn't ever have thought him your style, Dune . . . but you're a +clever feller and clever fellers always see more in stupid fellers than +ordinary fellers do . . . come out and see the rag." + +"Rag! What rag?" + +"It's November 5th." + +So it was. In the air already perhaps there were those mysterious +signs and portents that heralded riot--nothing, as yet, for the casual +observer to notice, nothing but a few undergraduates arm-in-arm pacing +the sleepy streets--a policeman here, a policeman there. Every now and +again clocks strike the quarters, and in many common-rooms heads are +nodding over ancient Port and argument of the gentlest kind is being +tossed to and fro. But, nevertheless, we remember other Fifths of +November. There was that occasion in '98, that other more distant time +in '93. . . . There was that furious battle in the Market Place when the +Town Hall was nearly set on fire and a policeman had his arm broken. + +These are historic occasions; on the other hand the fateful date has +passed, often enough, without the merest flinging of a squib or friendly +appropriation of the genial policeman's helmet. + +No one can say, no one knows, whether there will be riot to-night or no. +Most of the young gentlemen now parading the K.P. and Petty Cury would +undoubtedly prefer that there should be a riot. For one thing there has +been no riot during the last five or six years--no one "up" just now +has had any experience of such a thing, and it would be beyond question +delightful to taste the excitement of it. But, on the other hand, there +is all the difficulty of getting under way. One cannot possibly enjoy +the occasion until one has reached that delightful point when one has +lost all sense of risk, when recklessly we pile the bonfire, snap our +fingers in the nose of poor Mr. Gregg who is terrific enough when he +marches solemnly into Chapel but is nothing at all when he is screaming +with shrill anger amongst the lights and fury of the blazing common. + +Will this wonderful moment when discipline, respect for authority, +thoughts of home, terrors of being sent down, all these bogies, are +flung derisively to the winds arrive to-night? It has struck nine, and +to Olva and Lawrence, walking solemnly through the market-place, it all +seems quiet enough. + +But behold how the gods work their will! It so happens that Giles of St +Martin's has occasion, on this very day, to celebrate his twenty-first +birthday. It has been done as a twenty-first birthday should be done, +and by nine o'clock the company, twenty in number, have decided that +"it was the ruddiest of ruddy old worlds"--that--"let's have +some moretodrink ol' man--it was Fifth o' November--and that a +ruddyoldbonfire would be--a--ruddyol'-joke---" + +Now, at half-past nine, the company of twenty march singing down the +K.P. and gather unto themselves others--a murmur is spreading through +the byways. "Bonfire on the Common." "Bonfire on the Common." The +streets begin to be black with undergraduates. + + +2 + +Olva was conscious as he passed with Lawrence through the now crowded +streets that Bunning's hysteria had had an effect upon his nerves. He +could not define it more directly than by saying that the Shadow +that had, during these many weeks, appeared to be pursuing him, at a +distance, now seemed to be actually with him. It was as though three of +them, and not two, were walking there side by side. It was as though he +were himself whispering in his own ear some advice of urgent pleading +that he was himself rejecting . . . he was even weighted with the sense +of some enlarged growth, of having in fact to carry more, physically +as well as spiritually, than he had ever carried before. Now it quite +definitely and audibly pleaded-- + +"Submit--submit--submit. . . . See the tangle that you are getting +yourself into. See the trouble that you are getting others into. See +the tangle and muddle that you are making of it all. . . . Submit. . . . +Give in. . . . You're beaten." + +But he was not beaten. Neither the love of Margaret, nor the suspicions +of Rupert, nor the hysteria of Bunning had as yet defeated him . . . and +even as he resisted it was as though he were fighting himself. + +Sidney Street was now quite black with thronging undergraduates moving +towards the Common. There was very little noise in it all; every now +and again some voice would call aloud to some other voice and would be +answered back; a murmur like the swelling of some stream, unlike, in its +uniformity and curious evenness of note, any human conversation, seemed +to cling to the old grey walls. All of it at present orderly enough but +with sinister omen in its very quiet. + +Olva felt an increasing excitement as he moved. It was an excitement +that had some basis in the stir that was about him, in the murmur like +bees of the crowd, in the soft stirring of grey branches above the walls +of the street against the night sky, in the golden lights that, set in +dim towers, shone high up above their heads. In all these things there +was a mysterious tremor that beat, with the rhythm of a pulse, from the +town's very heart--but there was more than that in his excitement. There +was working in him a conviction that he was now, even now, reaching the +very climax of his adventure. Very certainly, very surely, the moment +was thawing near, and even in the instant when he had, that very +evening, left his rooms, he had stepped, he instinctively knew, out of +one stage into another. + +"Where are we going?" he asked Lawrence. + +"Common. There's goin' to be an old fire. Hope there's a row--don't mind +who I hit." + +The side streets that led to the Common made progress more difficult, +and, with the increased difficulty, came also a more riotous spirit. +Some one started "The Two Obadiahs," and it was lustily sung with a +good deal of repetition; several people had wooden rattles, intended +to encourage College boats during the races, but very useful just now. +There were, at the point where the street plunges into the Common, some +wooden turnstiles, and these of course were immensely in the way and men +were flung about and there was a good deal of coarse pleasantry, and +one mild freshman, who had been caught into the crowd by accident, was +thrown on to the ground and very nearly trodden to death. + +The sight of the vast and mysterious Common put every one into the best +of spirits. There was room here to do anything, and it was also dark +enough and wide enough to escape if escape were advisable. Moreover +the space of it seemed so limitless that it negatived any one's +responsibility. A sudden delightful activity swept over the world, and +it was immediately every one's business to get wood from anywhere at +all and drag it into the middle of the Common. As they moved through the +turnstiles Olva fancied that he caught sight of Craven. + +On the Common's edge, with bright little lights in their windows, were +perched a number of tiny houses with strips of garden in front of them. +These little eyes watched, apprehensively no doubt, the shadowy mass +that hovered under the night sky. They did not like this kind of thing, +these little houses--they remembered five or six years ago when +their cabbages had been trampled upon, their palings torn down, even +hand-to-hand contests in the passages and one roof on fire. Where were +the police? The little eyes watched anxiously. There was no sign of the +police. . . . + +Olva smiled at himself for the excitement that he was feeling. He was +standing at present with Lawrence on the edge of the Common, watching, +but he was feeling irresistibly drawn towards the dark pile of wood that +was rising slowly towards the sky. + +"As though one were ten years old"--and yet there was Lawrence +murmuring, "I'd awfully like to hit somebody." And that, after all, +was what it all came to. Perhaps Olva, if there were really to be some +"scraps," would be able to work off some of his apprehension, of his +breathlessness. Oh! for one wild ten minutes when scruples were flung +to the winds, when there was at last in front of one an enemy whom one +could touch, whom one could fling, physically, brutally, down before +one! + +"The worst of it is," Lawrence was saying, "there are these town +cads--they'll be in the back somewhere shoutin' ''It 'im, 'Varsity,' +or somethin' and then runnin' for their lives if they see a Robert +comin' . . . it's rotten bein', mixed up with such muck . . . anyhow I'm +goin' to have a dash at it----" and he had suddenly plunged forward into +space. + +Olva was alone. A breeze blew across the Common, the stars twinkled and +jumped as though they were suffering from a nervous attack, and with +every moment restraint was flung a farther distance, more voices called +aloud and shouted, more men poured out of the little side streets. It +had the elements of a great mystery. It was as though Mother Earth had, +with a heave of her breast, tossed these shadowy forms into the air and +was herself stirring with the emotion of their movement. + +There was an instant's breathless silence; to the roar of a shouting +multitude a bright hard flame shot like steel into the air--the bonfire +was alight. + +Now with every moment it mounted higher. Black pigmy figures were +now dancing round it and across the Common other figures were always +passing, dragging wood with them. The row of palings towards the river +had gone and soon those little cottages that lined the grass must +suffer. Surely now the whole of the University was gathered there! +The crowd was close now, dense--men shoved past one another crying out +excited cries, waving their arms with strange meaningless gestures. They +were arriving rapidly at that condition when they had neither names nor +addresses but merely impulses. + +Most dangerous element of all threatened that ring of loafers on the +outskirts--loafers from the town. Here in this "mob of excited boys" was +opportunity for them of getting something back on that authority that +had so often treated them with ignominy. . . . Their duty to shout +approval, to insult at a distance, to run for their lives were their +dirty bodies in any danger . . . but always to fan the flame---"Good +old--Varsity--Let them have it, the dirty--" "Pull their shirts off--" + +Screams, laughter, shouting, wild dancing--let the Dons come now and see +what they can make of it! + +"Bulldogs!" sounded a voice in Olva's ear, and turning round he beheld +a breathless, dishevelled Bunning. "I've been pulling wood off the +palings. Ha! hoch! he! (such noises to recover his breath). _Such_ a +rag!"--and then more apprehensively, "Bulldogs! There they are, with +Metcher!" They stood, two big men in top-hats, plainly to be seen behind +a Don in cap and gown, upon a little hill to the right of the bonfire. +The flames lit their figures. Metcher, the Don, was reading something +from a paper, and, round the hill, derisively dancing, were many +undergraduates. Apparently the Proctor found the situation too difficult +for him and presently he disappeared. Bunning watched him, apprehension +and a sense of order struggling' with a desire for adventure. "They've +gone to fetch the police. There'll be an awful row." + +There probably would be because that moment had at last been reached +when authority was flung absolutely to the winds of heaven. The world +seemed, in a moment, to have gone mad. Take Bunning, his cheeks +flushed, his body shaking, his eyes flaming, for an example. Olva, dark, +motionless in his shadow, watched it all and waited for his moment. He +knew that it was coming. Grimly he addressed the Shadow, now close to +his very heart. "I know you. You are urging me on. This night is your +business. . . . But I am fighting you still! I am fighting you still!" + +The moment came. Bunning, clutching on to Olva's sleeve, whispered, "The +police! Even at that crisis of intensest excitement he could be seen, +nervously, pushing his spectacles up his nose. A surging crowd of men, +and Olva again fancied that he caught sight of Craven, swept towards +the row of timid twinkling lights with their neat little gardens like +trembling protests laid out before them. More wood! more wood! to +appease that great flaming monster that shot tongues of fire now to the +very heavens. More wood! more wood!" + +"Look out, the police!" + +They came, with their truncheons, in a line down the Common. Olva was +flung into the heart of a heaving mass of legs and arms. He caught a +glimpse of Bunning behind and he thought that he saw Craven a little to +his right. He did not know--he did not care. His blood was up at last. +He was shouting he knew not what, he was hitting out with his fists. +Men's voices about him--"Let go, you beast." "My God, I'll finish you." +"There goes a bobby." "Stamp on him!" + +A disgraceful scene. The policemen were hopelessly outnumbered. The +crowd broke on to the line of orderly little gardens, water was +poured from windows, the palings were flung to the ground--glass +broken--screams of women somewhere in the distance. + +But even now Olva knew that his moment had not come. Then some one +shouted in his ear--"Town cads! They're murdering a bobby!" He was +caught with several other men (of their number was Bunning) off the +Common up a side street. + +A blazing lamp showed him an angry, shouting, jeering crowd; figures +closed round something on the ground. Four men had joined arms with him, +and now the five of them, shouting "'Varsity!" hitting right and left, +rushed into the circle. The circle broke and Olva saw lying his length +on the ground, half-stunned, clothed only in a torn shirt of bright +blue, a stout heavy figure--once obviously, from the clothes flung to +one side, a policeman, now with his large red face in a muddy puddle, +his fat naked legs bent beneath him, his fingers clutching dirt, nothing +very human at all. Town cads of the worst! Some brute now was raising +his foot and kicking the bare flesh! + +Instantly the world was on flame for Olva. Now again, as once in Sannet +Wood, he must hit and hit with all his soul. He broke, like a madman, +into the heart of the crowd, sending it flying. There were cries and +screams. + +He was conscious of three faces. There was Bunning there, white, +staring. There was Craven, with his back to a house-door, staring +also--and directly before him was a purple face with muddy hair fringing +it and little beady eyes. The face of the brute who had been kicking! He +must hit. He struck and his fist broke the flesh! He was exultant . . . +at last he had, after these weeks of intangibility, found something +solid. The face broke away from him. The circle scattered back and the +fat, naked body was lying in the mud alone. There was a sudden silence. +Olva, conscious of a great power surging through his body, raised his +hand again. + +A voice, shrill, terror in it, screamed, "Look out, man, he'll kill +you!" + +He turned and saw under the lamplight Craven, his eyes blazing, his +finger pointed. He was suddenly cold from head to foot. The voice came, +it had seemed, from heaven. Craven's eyes were alive now with certainty. +Then there was another cry from somewhere of "The police!" and the crowd +had melted. In the little street now there were only the body of the +policeman and a handful of undergraduates. + +They raised the man, poured water over him, found some of his clothes, +and two men led him, his head lolling, down the street. + +There was a noisy world somewhere in the distance, but here there was +silence. Olva crept slowly out of his exultation and found himself in +the cold windy street with Bunning for his only companion. + +Bunning--now a torn, dirty, bleeding Bunning--gripped his arm. + +"Did you hear?" + +"Hear what?" + +"Craven--when you were fighting there--Craven was watching . . . I saw +it all . . . Craven suspects." + +Olva met the frightened eyes--"He does not suspect." + +"Didn't you hear? He called out to the cad you were going for. . . ." +Then, in a kind of whimper, dismal enough in the dreary little +street--"He'll find out--Craven--I know he will. . . . Oh! my God! what +_shall_ I do!" + +Some one had broken the glass of the street lamp and the gas flared +above them, noisily. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +LOVE TO THE "VALSE TRISTE" + +1 + +It was all, when one looked back upon it, the rankest melodrama. The +darkness, the flaming lamp, Craven's voice and eyes, Bunning . . . +it had all arranged itself as though it bad been worked by a master +dramatist. At any rate there they now were, the three of them--Olva, +Bunning, Craven--placed in a situation that could not possibly stay +as it was. In which direction was it going to develop? Bunning had no +control at all, it would be he who would supply the next move . . . +meanwhile in the back of Olva's mind there was that banging sense of +urgency, no time to be lost. He must see Margaret and speak before +Rupert spoke to her. Perhaps, even now, Craven was not certain. If he +only knew of how much Craven was sure! Did he feel sure enough to speak +to Margaret? + +Meanwhile the first and most obvious thing was that Bunning was in a +state of terror that threatened instant exposure. The man was evidently +realizing that now, for the first time, he had a big thing with which he +must grapple. He must grapple with his devotion to Olva, with his terror +of Craven, but, most of all, with his terror of himself. That last was +obviously the thing that tortured him, for, having now been given by the +High Gods an opportunity of great service, so miserable a creature did +he consider himself that he would not for an instant trust his control. +He was trying, Olva saw, with an effort that in its intensity was +pathetic to prove himself worthy of the chance that had been offered +him, as though it were the one sole opportunity that he would ever be +given, but to appear to the world something that he was not was an art +that Bunning and his kind could never acquire--that is their tragedy. +It was the fate of Bunning that his boots and spectacles should always +negative any attempt that he might make at a striking personality. + +On the night after the "Rag" he sat in Olva's room and made a supreme +effort at control. + +"If you can only hold on," Olva told him, "to the end of term. It's only +a week or two now. Just stick it until then; you won't be bothered with +me after that." + +"You're going away?" + +"I don't know--it depends." + +"I don't know what I should do if you went. To have to stand that awful +secret all alone . . . only me knowing. Oh! I couldn't! I couldn't! and +now that Craven--" + +"Craven knows nothing. He doesn't even suspect anything. See here, +Bunning"--Olva crossed over to him and put his hand on his shoulder. +"Can't you understand that your behaviour makes me wish that I hadn't +told you, whereas if you care as you say you do you ought to want to +show me how you can carry it, to prove to me that I was right to tell +you---" + +"Yes, I know. But Craven---" + +"Craven knows nothing." + +"But he does." Bunning's voice became shrill and his fat hand shook on +Olva's arm. "There's something I haven't told you. This morning in Outer +Court he stopped me." + +"Craven stopped you?" + +"Yes. There was no one about. I was going along to my rooms and he met +me and he said: 'Hullo, Bunning.'" + +"Well?" + +"I'd been thinking of it--of his knowing, I mean--all night, so I was +dreadfully startled, dreadfully startled. I'm afraid I showed it." + +"Get on. What did he say?" + +"He said: 'Hullo, Bunning!'" + +"Yes, you've told me that. What else?" + +"I said 'Hullo!' I was dreadfully startled. I don't think he'd ever +spoken to me before. And then he looked so strange--wild, as though he +hadn't slept, and white, and his eyes moved all the time. I'm afraid he +saw that I was startled." + +"Do get on. What else did he ask you?" + +"He asked me whether I'd enjoyed last night. He said: 'You were with +Dune, weren't you?' He cried, as though he wasn't speaking to me at all: +'That's an odd sort of friend for you to have.' I ought to have been +angry I suppose, but I was shaking all over . . . yes . . . well . . . +then he said: 'I thought you were in with all those pi men,' and I just +couldn't say anything at all--I was shaking so. He must have thought I +looked very odd." + +"I'm sure he did," said Olva drily. "Well it won't be many days before +_you_ give the show away--_that's_ certain." + +What could have made him tell the fellow? What madness? What---? + +But Bunning caught on to his sleeve. + +"No, no, you mustn't say that, Dune, please, you mustn't. I'm going to +do my best, I am really. But his coming suddenly like that, just when +I'd been thinking. . . . But it's awful. I told you if any one suspected +it would make it so hard---" + +"Look here, Bunning, perhaps it will help you if you know the way that +I'm feeling about it. I'll try and explain. All these days there's +something in me that's urging me to go out and confess." + +"Conscience," said Bunning solemnly. + +"No, it isn't conscience at all. It's something quite different, because +the thing that's urging me isn't urging me because I've done something +I'm ashamed of, it's urging me because I'm in a false position. There's +that on the one side, and, on the other, I'm in love with Rupert +Craven's sister." + +Bunning gave a little cry. + +"Yes. That complicates things, doesn't it? Now you see why Rupert Craven +is the last person who must know anything about it; it's because he +loves his sister so much and suspects, I think, that I care for her, +that he's going to find out the truth." + +"Does she care for you?" Bunning brought out huskily. + +"I don't know. That's what I've got to find out." + +"Because it all depends on that. If she cares enough it won't matter +what you've done, and if she doesn't care enough it won't matter her +knowing because you oughtn't to marry her. Oh," and Bunning's eyes +as they gazed at Olva were those, once more, of a devoted dog: "she's +lucky." Then he repeated, as though to himself, in his odd husky +whisper: "Anything that I can do . . . anything that I can do . . ." + + +2 + +On the next evening, about five o'clock, Olva went to the house in +Rocket Road. He went through a world that, in its frosty stillness, +held beauty in its hands like a china cup, so fragile in its colours, so +gentle in its outline, with a moon, round and of a creamy white, with a +sky faintly red, and stiff trees, black and sharp. + +Cambridge came to Olva then as a very lovely thing. The Cambridge life +was a lovely thing with its kindness, its simplicity, its optimism. He +was penetrated too with a great sadness because he knew that life of +that kind was gone, once and for ever, from him; whatever came to him +now it could never again be that peace; the long houses flung black +shadows across the white road and God kept him company. . . . + +Miss Margaret Craven had not yet come in, but would Mr. Dune, perhaps, +go up and see Mrs. Craven? The old woman's teeth chattered in the cold +little hall. "We are dead, all of us dead here," the skins on the walls +seemed to say; "and you'll be dead soon . . . oh! yes, you will." + +Olva went up to Mrs. Craven. The windows of her room were tightly closed +and a great fire was blazing; before this she lay stretched out on a +sofa of faded green--her black dress, her motionless white hands, her +pale face, her moving eyes. + +She had beside her to-day a little plate of dry biscuits, and, now and +again, her hand would move across her black dress and break one of these +with a sharp sound, and then her hand would fall back again. + +"I am very glad to see you. Draw your chair to the fire. It is a chill +day, but fine, I believe." + +She regarded him gravely. + +"It is not much of life that I can watch from this room, Mr. Dune. It is +good of you to come and see me . . . there must be many other things for +you to do." + +He came at once to the point. + +"I want your permission to ask your daughter to marry me, Mrs. Craven." + +There was a long silence between them. He seemed, in his inner +consciousness, to be carrying on a dialogue. + +"You see," he said to the Shadow, "I have forestalled you. I shall ask +Margaret Craven this evening to marry me. You cannot prevent that . . . +you _cannot_." + +And a voice answered: "All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me." + +"You have known us a very short time, Mr. Dune." Mrs. Craven's voice +came to him from a great distance. + +He felt as though he were speaking to two persons. "Time has nothing to +do with falling in love, Mrs. Craven." + +He saw to his intense amazement that she was greatly moved. She, who +had always seemed to him a mask, now was suddenly revealed as suffering, +tortured, intensely human. Her thin white hands were pressed together. + +"I am a lonely, unhappy woman, Mr. Dune. Margaret is now all that is +left to me. Everything has been taken from me. Rupert--" Her voice +was lost; very slowly tears rolled down her cheeks. She began again +desperately. "Margaret is all that I have got. If I were left alone it +would be too much for me. I could not endure the silence." + +It was the more moving in that it followed such stern reserve. His own +isolation, the curious sense that he had that they were, both of them, +needing protection against the same power (it seemed to him that if he +raised his eyes he would see, on the opposite wall, the shadow of +that third Presence); this filled him with the tenderest pity, so that +suddenly he bent down and kissed her hand. + +She caught his with a fierce convulsive movement, and so they sat in +silence whilst he felt the pulse of her hand beat through his body, and +once a tear rolled from her cheek on to his wrist. + +"You understand . . ." she said at last. "You understand. I have always +seen that you know. . ." Then she whispered, "How did you know?" + +"Know?" He was bewildered, but before she could speak again the door +opened and Margaret Craven came in. + +She moved with that restrained emotion that he had seen in her when he +had first met her. She was some great force held in check, some fire +that blazed but must be hidden from the world, and as she bent over +her mother and kissed her the embrace had in it something of passionate +protest; both women seemed to assert in it their right to quite another +sort of life. + +He saw that his moment with Mrs. Craven had passed. That fire, that +humanity had gone from her and she lay back now on her sofa with the +faint waxen lids closed upon her eyes, her hands thinly folded, almost a +dead woman. + +Margaret kissed her again--now softly and gently, and Olva went with her +from the room. + + +3 + +He was prepared to find that Rupert had told her everything. He thought +that he saw in the gravity and sadness of her manner, and also in the +silence that she seemed deliberately at first to place between them, +that she was waiting for the right moment to break it to him. He felt +that she would ask him gravely and with great kindness, but that, in the +answer that he would give her, it must be all over . . . the end. The +pursuit would be concluded. + +Then suddenly in the way that she looked at him he knew that she had +been told nothing. + +"I'm afraid that mother is very unwell. I'm afraid that you must have +found her so." + +"If she could get away---" he began. + +"Ah! if we could all get away! If only we could! But we have talked of +that before. It is quite impossible. And, even if we could (and how glad +I should be!), I do not know that it would help mother. It is Rupert +that is breaking her heart!" + +"Rupert!" + +For answer to his exclamation she cried to him with all the pent-up +suffering and loneliness of the last weeks in her voice-- + +"Ah, Mr. Dune, help me! I shall go mad if something doesn't happen; +every day it is worse and I can't grapple with it. I'm not up to it. +If only they'd speak out! but it's this silence!" She seemed to pull +herself together and went on more quietly: "You know that Rupert and I +have been everything to one another all our lives. We have never had +a secret of any kind. Until this last month Rupert was the most open, +dearest boy in the world. His tenderness with my mother was a most +wonderful thing, and to me!--I cannot tell you what he was to me. I +suppose, for the very reason that we were so much to one another, we +did not make any other very close friends. I had girls in Dresden, of +course, and there were men at school and college for whom he cared, +but I think there can have been few brothers and sisters who were so +entirely together in every way. A month ago that all ceased." + +She flung her head back with a sharp defiant movement as though the +memory of it hurt her. + +"I've told you this before. I talked to you about it when you were +here last. But since then he has become much worse and I am afraid that +anything may happen. I have no one to go to. It is killing my mother, +and then--you were a friend of his." + +"I hope that I am now." + +"That is the horrible part of it. But it seems now that all this +agitation, this trouble, is directed against you." + +"Against me" + +"Yes, the other evening he spoke about you--here--furiously. He said +you must never come here again, that I must never speak to you again. +He said that you had done dreadful things. And then when I asked him he +could not tell me anything. He seemed--and you must look on it in that +light, Mr. Dune--as though he were not in the least responsible for what +he said. I'm afraid he is very, very ill. He is dreadfully unhappy, and +yet he can explain nothing. I too have been very unhappy, and mother, +because we love him." + +"If he wishes that I should not come here again---" Olva began. + +"But he is not responsible. He really does not know what he is doing. +He never had the smallest trouble that he did not confide it to me, and +now---" + +"I have noticed, of course," Olva said "that lately his manner to me has +been strange. I would have helped him if he would let me, but he will +not. He will have nothing to say to me . . . I too have been very sorry +about it. I have been sorry because I am fond of Rupert, but also--there +is another, stronger reason--because I love you, Margaret." + +As he spoke he got up and stood by her chair. He saw her take in his +last words, at first with a wondering gravity, then with a sudden +splendour so that light flooded her face; her arms made a little +helpless gesture, and she caught his hand. + +He drew her up to him out of her chair; then, with a fierce passionate +movement, they held one another and clung together as though in a +desperate wild protest against the world. + +"You can't touch me now--I've got her," he seemed to fling at the blank +face of the old mirror. + +It was his act of defiance, but through his exultation he caught the +whisper--it might again have been conveyed to him through the shrill +shivering notes of the "Valse Triste"--"Tell her--tell her--now. Trust +her. Dear son, trust Me . . . it must be so in the end." + +"Now," he heard her say, "I can stand it all." + +"When you came into this room weeks ago," she went on, "I loved you; +from the very first instant. Now I do not mind what any one can do." + +"I too loved you from the first instant." + +"You were so grave. I tried at first not to think of you as a person at +all because I thought that it was safer, and then gradually, although I +fought against you, I could not keep you out. You drove your way in. You +understood so wonderfully the things that I wanted you to understand. +Then Rupert and mother drove me to want you more and more. I thought +that you liked me, but I didn't know. . . ." Then with a little shiver +she clung to him, pressing close to him. "Oh! hold me, hold me safe." + +The room was now gathering to itself that dusk that gave it its +strangest air. The fire had fallen low and only shone now in the +recesses of the high fireplace with a dull glimmer. Amongst the shadows +it seemed that the Presence was gravely waiting. As Olva held Margaret +in his arms he felt that he was fighting to keep her. + +In the dark hollow of the mirror he thought that he saw the long white +road, the mists, the little wood and some one running. . . . + +It seemed to him that Margaret was not there, that the room was dark and +very heavy, that some bell was ringing in his ear. . . . Then about +him a thousand voices were murmuring: "Tell her--tell her--tell her the +truth." + +With a last effort he tried to cry "I will not tell her." + +His lips broke on her name "Margaret." Then, with a little sigh, +tumbling forward, he fainted. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +MRS. CRAVEN + +1 + +Afterwards, lying in his easy chair before his fire, he was allowed a +brief and beautiful respite. It was almost as though he were already +dead--as though, consciously, he might lie there, apart from the world, +freed from the eternal pursuit, at last unharassed, and hold, with both +hands, that glorious certainty--Margaret. + +He had a picture of her now. He was lying where he had tumbled, there on +the floor with the silver trays and boxes, the odd tables, the gimcrack +chairs all about him. Slowly he had opened his eyes and had gazed, +instantly, as though the gates of heaven had rolled back for him, into +her face. She was kneeling on the floor, one hand was behind his head, +the other bathed his forehead. He could see her breasts (so little, so +gentle) rise and fall beneath her thin dress, and her great dark eyes +caught his soul and held it. + +In that one great moment God withdrew. For the first time in his +knowledge of her they were alone, and in the kiss that he gave to her +when he drew her down to him they met for the first time. Death and the +anger of God might come to him--that great moment could never be taken +from him. It was his. . . . + +He had seen that she was gravely distressed with his fainting, and he +had been able to give her no reason beyond the heat of the room. He +could see that she was puzzled and felt that there was some mystery +there that she was not to know, but she too had found in that last kiss +a glorious certainty that no other hazard could possibly destroy. + +He loved her--she loved him. Let the Gods thunder! + +But he knew, nevertheless, as he lay back there in the chair, that he +had received a sign. That primrose path with Margaret was not to be +allowed him, and so sure was he that now he could lie back and look at +it all as though he were a spectator and wonder in what way God +intended to work it out. The other side of him--the fighting, battling +creature--was, for the moment, dormant. Soon Bunning would come in +and then the fight would begin again, but for the instant there was +peace--the first peace that he had known since that far-away evening in +St. Martin's Chapel. + +As with a drowning man (it is said) so now with Olva his past life +stretched, in panorama, before him. He saw the high rocky grey building +with its rough shape and shaggy lichen, its neglected courtyard, its +iron-barred windows, the gaunt trees, like witches, that hemmed it, the +white ribbon of road, far, far below it, the shining gleam of the river +hidden by purple hills. He saw his father--huge, flowing grey beard, +eyebrows stuck, like leeches, on to his weather-beaten face, his gnarled +and knotted hands. He saw himself a tiny boy with thin black hair and +grave eyes watching his father as he bathed in the mill-pool below the +house--his father rising naked from the stream, hung with the mists of +early morning, naked with enormous chest, huge flanks, his beard black +then and sweeping across his breast, his great thighs shining with the +dripping water--primitive, primeval, in the heart of the early morning +silence. + +Many, many other pictures of those first days, but always Olva and his +father, moving together, speaking but seldom, sitting before the fire in +the evenings, watching the blaze, despising the world. The contempt that +his father had for his fellow-beings! Had a man ever been so alone? Olva +himself had drunk of that same contempt and welcomed his solitude at +Harrow. The world had been with him a place of war, of hostility, until +he had struck that blow in Sannet Wood. He remembered the eagerness with +which, at the end of term, he had hastened back to his father. After the +noise and clatter of school life how wonderful to go back to the still +sound of dripping water, to the crackle of dry leaves under foot, to +the heavy solemn tread of cattle, to those evenings when at his father's +side he heard the coals click in the fire and the old clock on the +stairs wheeze out the passing minutes. That relationship with his father +bad been, until this term, the only emotion in his life--and now? And +now! + +It was incredible this change that had come to him. First there was +Margaret and then, after her, Mrs. Craven, Rupert, Lawrence, Cardillac, +Bunning. All these persons, in varying degree, bad become of concern to +him. The world that had always been a place of smoke, of wind, of sky, +was now, of a sudden, crowded with figures. He bad been swept from the +hill-top down into the market-place. He had been given perhaps one keen +glance of a moving world before he was drawn from it altogether. . . . +Now, just as he had tasted human companionship and loved it, must he +die? + +He knew, too, that his recent popularity in the College had pleased him. +He wanted them to like him . . . he was proud to feel that because he +was he therefore Cardillac resigned, willingly, his place to him. But if +Cardillac knew him for a felon, knew that he might be hanged in the +dark and flung into a nameless grave, what then? If Cardillac knew what +Rupert Craven almost knew, would not his horror be the same? The world, +did it only know. . . . + +To-morrow was the day of the Dublin match. Olva and Cardillac were both +playing, and at the end of the game choice might be made between them. +Did Olva care? He did not know . . . but Margaret was coming, and, in +the back of his mind, he wanted to show her what he could do. + +And yet, whilst that Shadow hovered in the Outer Court, how little a +thing this stir and movement was! No tumult that the material world +could ever make could sound like that whisper that was with him now +again in the room--with him at his very heart--"All things betray Thee. +. . ." + +The respite was over. Bunning came in. + +Change had seized Bunning. Here now was the result of his having pulled +himself together. Olva could see that the man bad made up his mind +to something, and that, further, he was resolved to keep his purpose +secret. It was probably the first occasion in Bunning's life of such +resolution. There was a faint colour in the fat cheeks, the eyes bad a +little light and the man scarcely spoke at all lest this purpose should +trickle from his careless lips. Also as he looked at Olva his customary +devotion was heightened by an air of frightened pride. + +Olva, watching him, was apprehensive--the devotion of a fool is the +most dangerous thing in creation. + +"Well, have you seen Craven again?" + +"Yes. We had a talk." + +"What did he say?" + +"Oh, nothing." + +"Rot. He didn't stop and talk to you about the weather. Come on, +Bunning, what have you been up to?" + +"I haven't been up to anything." + +The man's lips were closed. For another half an hour Bunning sat in a +chair before the fire--silent. Every now and again he flung a glance at +Olva. Sometimes he jerked his head towards the window as though he heard +a step. + +He had the look of a Christian going into the amphitheatre to face the +Beasts. + + +2 + +About eleven o'clock of the next morning Olva went to see Margaret. He +had written to her the night before and asked her not to tell Rupert +the news of their engagement immediately, but, when the morning came, he +could not rest with that. He must know more. + +It was a damp, misty morning, the fine frost had gone. He was going to +Margaret to try and recover some reality out of the state that he was +in. The recent incidents--Craven's suspicions, the 5th of November +evening, Bunning's alarm, the scene with Margaret--bad dragged him for +a time from that conviction that he was living in an unreal world. That +day when he had run in the snowstorm from Sannet Wood had seemed to him, +during these last weeks, absurd and an effect, obviously, of excited +nerves. Now, on this morning of the Dublin match, he awoke again to +that unreal condition. The bedmaker, the men passing through the Court +beneath his windows, the porter at the gate--these people were unreal, +and above him, around him, the mist seemed ever about to break into new +terrible presences. + +"This thing is wearing me down. I shall go off my head if something +definite doesn't happen"--and then, there in his room with the stupid +breakfast things still on the table, the consciousness of the presence +of God seized him so that he felt as though the pursuit were suddenly at +an end and there was nothing left now but complete submission. + +In this world of wraiths, God was the most certain Presence. . . . + +There remained only Margaret. Perhaps she could recover reality for him. +He went to her. + +He found her waiting for him in the little drawing-room and he could not +see her. He knew then that the Pursuing Shadow had taken a new step. It +was literally physically true. The room was there, the shining things, +the knick-knacks, the mirror, the scent of oranges. He could see her +body, her black dress, her eyes, her white neck, the movement towards +him that she made when she saw him coming, but there was nothing there. +It was as though he had been asked to love a picture. + +He could not think of her at all as Margaret Craven or of himself +as Olva Dune. Only in the glass's reflection he saw the white road +stretching to the wood. + +"I really am going off my head. She'll see that something's up"--and +then from the bottom of his heart, far away as though it had been the +cry of another person, "Oh! how I want her How I want her!" + +He took her in his arms and kissed her and felt as though he were dead +and she were dead and that they were both, being so young am eager for +life, struggling to get back existence again. + +Her voice came to him from a long distance "Olva, how ill you look! What +is it? What won't you tell me? There's something the matter with you all +and you all keep me in the dark." + +He said nothing and she went on very gently, "It would be so much +better, dear, if you were to tell me. After all, I'm part of you now, +aren't I? Perhaps I can help you." + +His own voice, from a long distance, said: "I don't think that you can +help me, Margaret." + +She put her hand on his arm and looked up into his face. "I am trying to +help you all, but it is so difficult if you will tell me nothing. And, +Olva dear, if it is something that you have done--something that you are +afraid to tell me--believe me, dear, that there's nothing--nothing in +the world--that you could have done that would matter to me now. I love +you--nothing can alter that." + +He tried to feel that the hand on his arm was real. With a great effort +he spoke: "Have you told Rupert?" + +"Mother told him last night." + +"What did he say?" + +"I don't know--but they had a terrible scene. Rupert," her lip quivered, +"went away without a word last night. Only he told mother that if I +would not give you up he would never come into the house again. But he +loves me more than any one in the world, and he can't do without me. I +know that he can't, and I know that he will come back. Mother wants to +see you; perhaps you will go up to her." + +She had moved back from him and was looking at him with sad perplexity. +He knew that he must seem strange and cold standing there, in the middle +of the room, without making any movement towards her, but he could not +help himself, he seemed to have no power over his own actions. + +Coming up to him she flung her arms round his neck. "Olva, Olva, tell +me, I can't endure it"--but slowly he detached himself from her and +left her. + +As he went through the dark close passage he wondered how God could be +so cruel. + +When he came into Mrs. Craven's room he knew that her presence comforted +him. The dark figure on the faded sofa by the fire seemed to him now +more real than anything else in the world. Although Mrs. Craven made +no movement yet he felt that she encouraged him come to her, that she +wanted him. The room was very dark and bare, and although a large fire +blazed in the hearth, it was cold. Beyond the window a misty world, +dank, with dripping trees, stretched to a dim horizon. Mrs. Craven did +not turn her eyes from the fire when she heard him enter. He felt as +though she were watching him and knew that he had drawn a chair beside +the sofa. Suddenly she moved her hand towards him and he took it and +held it for a moment. + +She turned and he saw that she had been crying. + +"I had a talk with my son last night," she said at last, and her voice +seemed to him the saddest thing that he had ever heard. "We had always +loved one another until lately. Last night he spoke to me as he has +never spoken before. He was very angry and I know that he did not mean +all that he said to me--but it hurt me." + +"I'm afraid, Mrs. Craven, that it was because of me. Rupert is very +angry with me and he refuses to consent to Margaret's marriage with me. +Is not that so?" + +"Yes, but it is not only that. For many weeks now he has not been +himself with me. I am not a happy woman. I have had much to make me +unhappy. My children are a very great deal to me. I think that this has +broken my heart." + +"Mrs. Craven, if there is anything that I can do that will put things +right, if I can say anything to Rupert, if I can tell him anything, +explain anything, I will. I think I can tell you, Mrs. Craven, why it +is that Rupert does not wish me to marry Margaret. I have something to +confess--to you." + +Then he was defeated at last? He had surrendered? In another moment the +words "I killed Carfax and Rupert knows that I killed him" would have +left his lips--but Mrs. Craven had not heard his words. Her face was +turned away from him again and she spoke in a strange, monotonous voice +as one speaks in a dream. + +The words seemed to be created out of the faded sofa, the misty window, +the dim shadowy bed. She was crying--her hands were pressed to her +face--the words came between her sobs. + +"It is too much for me. All these years I have kept silence. Now I can +bear it no longer. If Rupert leaves me, it will kill me, but unless I +speak to some one I shall die of all this silence, . . . I cannot bear +any longer to be alone with God." + +Was it his own voice? Were these his own words? Had things gone so far +with him that he did not know--"I cannot bear any longer to be alone +with God. . . ." Was not that his own perpetual cry? + +"Mr. Dune, I killed my husband." + +In the silence that followed the only sound was her stifled crying and +the crackling fire. + +"You knew from the beginning." + +"No, I did not know." + +"But you were different from all the others. I felt it at once when I +saw you. You knew, you understood, you were sorry for me." + +"I am sorry. I understand. But I did not know." + +"Let me tell you." She turned her face towards him and began to speak +eagerly. + +He took her hand between his. + +"Oh! the relief--now at once--after all these years of silence. Fifteen +years. . . . It happened when Rupert was a tiny boy. You see he was +a bad man. I found it out almost at once--after a month or two. But I +loved him madly--utterly. I did not care about his being bad--that does +not matter to a woman--but he set about breaking my heart. It amused +him. Margaret was born. He used to terrify me with the things that he +would teach her. He said that he would make her as big a devil as he +was himself. I prayed God that I might never have another child and +then Rupert was born. From that moment my one prayer was that my husband +might die. + +"At last my opportunity came. He fell ill--dreadful attacks of +heart--and one night he had a terrible attack and I held back the +medicine that would have saved him. I saw his eyes watching me, pleading +for it. I stood and waited . . . he died." + +She stopped for a moment--then her words came more slowly: "It was a +very little thing--it was not a very bad thing--he was a wicked +man . . . but God has punished me and He will punish me until I die. All +these years He has pursued me, urging me to confess--I have fought and +struggled against it, but at last He has beaten me--He has driven me. +. . . Oh! the relief! the relief!" + +She looked at him curiously. + +"If you did not know, why did I feel that you understood and +sympathized? Have you no horror of me now?" + +For answer, he bent and kissed her cheek. + +"I too am very lonely. I too know what God can do." + +Then she clung to him as though she would never let him leave her. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +GOD + +1 + +Half an hour later he was in his room again, and the real world had come +back to him. It had come back with the surprise of some supernatural +mechanism; it was as though the sofa, chairs, pictures had five minutes +before been grass and toadstools in a world of mist and now were sofa, +chairs and pictures again. + +He was absolutely sane, whereas half an hour ago he had been held almost +by an enchantment. If Margaret were here with him now, here in his +room--not in that dim, horrible Rocket Road house, raised it might +almost seem by the superstitions and mists of his own conscience--ah! +how he would love her! + +He was filled with a sense of energy and enterprise. He would have it +out with Rupert, laugh away his suspicions, reconcile him to the idea of +the marriage, finally drag Margaret from that horrible house. As with a +man who has furious attacks of neuralgia, and between the agony of them +feels, so great is the relief, that no pain will ever come to him again, +so Olva was now, for an instant, the Olva of a month ago. + +Four times had the Pursuer thus given him respite--on the morning after +the murder, in St. Martin's Chapel on that same evening, after his +confession to Bunning, and now. But Aegidius, looking down from his +wall, saw the strong, stern face of his young friend and loved him and +knew that, at last, the pursuit was at an end. . . . + +Bunning came in. + + +2 + +Bunning came in. The little silver clock had just struck a quarter to +one. The match was at half-past two. + +Olva knew at his first sight of Bunning that something had happened. The +man seemed dazed, he dragged his great legs slowly after him and planted +them on the floor as though he wanted something that was secure, like +a man who had begun desperately to slip down a crevasse. His back was +bowed and his cheeks were flushed as though some one had been striking +him, but his eyes told Olva everything. They were the eyes of a child +who has been wakened out of sleep and sees Terror. + +"What is it? Sit down. Pull yourself together." + +"Oh! Dune! . . . My God, Dune!" The man's voice had the unreality of men +walking in a cinematograph. "Craven's coming." + +"Coming! Where?" + +"Here!" + +"Now?" + +"I don't know--when. He knows." + +"You told him?" + +"I thought it best. I thought I was doing right. It's all gone wrong. +Oh! these last two days! what I've suffered!" + +Now for the first time in the history of the whole affair Olva Dune may +be said to have felt sheer physical terror, not terror of the mist, +of the road, of the darkness, of the night, but terror of physical +things--of the loss of light and air, of the denial of food, of physical +death. . . . For a moment the room swam about him. He heard, in the +Court below him, some men laughing--a dog was barking. Then he saw that +Bunning was on the edge of hysteria. The bedmaker would come in and find +him laughing--as he had laughed once before. + +Olva stilled the room with a tremendous effort--the floor sank, the +table and chairs tossed no longer. + +"Now, Bunning, tell me quickly. They'll be here to lay lunch in a +minute. What have you told Craven? And why have you told him anything?" + +"I told him--yesterday--that I did it." + +"That _you_ did it?" + +"Yes, that I murdered Carfax." + +"My God! You fool! . . . You fool!" + +A most dangerous thing this devotion of a fool. + +But, strangely, Olva's words roused in Bunning a kind of protest, so +that he pulled his eyes back into their sockets, steadied his hands, +held his boots firmly to the floor, and, quite softly, with a little +note of urgency in it as though he were pleading before a great court, +said-- + +"Yes, I know. But he drove me to it; Craven did. I thought it was the +only way to save you. He's been at me now for days; ever since that time +he stopped me in Outer Court and asked me why I was a friend of yours. +He's been coming to my room--at night--at all sorts of times--and just +sitting there and looking at me." + +Olva came across and touched Bunning's arm: "Poor Bunning! What a brute +I was to tell you!" + +"He used to come and say nothing--just look at me. I couldn't stand it, +you know. I'm not a clever man--not at all clever--and I used to try +and think of things to talk about, but it always seemed to come back to +Carfax--every time." + +"And then--when you told me the other day about your caring for Miss +Craven--I felt that I must do something. I'd always puzzled, you know, +why I should be brought into it at all. I didn't seem to be the sort of +fellow who'd be likely to be mixed up with a man like you. I felt that +it must be with some purpose, you know, and now--now--I thought I +suddenly saw-- + +"I don't know--I thought he'd believe me--I thought he'd tell the police +and they'd arrest me--and that'd be the end of it." + +Here Bunning took a handkerchief and began miserably to gulp and sniff. + +"But, good heavens!" Olva cried, "you didn't suppose that they wouldn't +discover it all at the police-station in a minute! Two questions and +you'd be done! Why, man----!" + +"I didn't know. I thought it would be all right. I was all alone that +afternoon, out for a walk by myself--and you'd told me how you did it. +I'd only got to tell the same story. I couldn't see how any one should +know---I couldn't really . . . I don't suppose"--many gulps--"that I +thought much about that--I only wanted to save you." + +How bright and wonderful the day! How full of colour the world! And it +was all over, all absolutely, finally done. + +"Now--look here, stop that sniffing--it's all right. I'm not angry with +you. Just tell me exactly what you said to Craven yesterday when you +told him." + +Bunning thought. "Well, he came into my room quite early after my +breakfast. I was reading my Bible, as I used to, you know, every +morning, to see whether I could be interested again, as I used to be. I +was finding I couldn't when Craven came in. He looked queer. He's been +looking queerer every day, and I don't think he's been sleeping. Then +he began to ask me questions, not actually about anything, but odd +questions like, Where was I born? and Why did I read the Bible? and +things like that--just to make me comfortable--and his eyes were so +funny, red and small and never still. Then he got to you." + +The misery now in Bunning's eyes was more than Olva could bear. It was +dumb, uncomprehending misery, the unhappiness of something caught in a +trap--and that trap this glittering dancing world! + +"Then he got to you! He always asked me the same questions. How long +I'd known you?--Why we got on together when we were so different?--silly +meaningless things--and he didn't listen to my answers. He was always +thinking of the next things to ask and that frightened me so." + +The misery in Bunning's eyes grew deeper. + +"Suddenly I thought I saw what was meant--that I was intended to take it +on myself. It made me warm all over, the though of it. . . . Now, I was +going to do something . . . that's how I saw it!" + +"Going to do something . . ." he repeated desperately, with choking +sobs between the words. "It's all happened so quickly. He had just said +absently, not looking at me, 'You like Dune, don't you?' + +"When I came out with it all at once---I said, 'Yes, I know, I know what +_you_ want. You think that Dune killed Carfax and that _I_ know he did, +but he didn't _I_ killed Carfax. . . .'" + +Bunning's voice quite rang out. His eyes now desperately sought Olva's +face, as though he would find there something that would make the world +less black. + +"I wasn't frightened---not then---that was the odd thing. The only thing +I thought about was saving you---getting you out of it. I didn't see! I +didn't see!" + +"And then---what did Craven say?" Olva asked quietly. + +"Craven said scarcely anything. He asked me whether I realized what I +was saying, whether I saw what I was in for? I said 'Yes'---that it had +all been too much for my conscience, that I had to tell some one---all +the things that you told me. Then he asked me why I'd done it. I told +him because Carfax always bullied me---he did, you know---and that one +day I couldn't stand it any longer and I met him in the wood and hit +him. He said, 'You must be very strong,' and of course I'm not, you +know, and that ought to have made me suspect something. But it didn't. +. . . Then he said he must think over what he ought to do, but all the +time he was saying it I knew he was thinking of something else and then +he went away." + +"That was yesterday morning?" + +"Yesterday morning, and all day I was terrified, but happy too. I +thought I'd done a big thing and I thought that the police would come +and carry me off. . . . Nothing happened all day. I sat there waiting. +And I thought of you---that you'd be able to marry Miss Craven and +would be very happy. + +"Then, this morning, coming from chapel, Craven stopped me. I thought he +was going to tell me that he'd thought it his duty to give me away. He +would, you know. But it wasn't that. + +"All he said was: 'I wonder how you know so much about it, Bunning.' I +couldn't say anything. Then he said, 'I'm going to ask Dune.' That was +all . . . all," he wretchedly repeated, and then, with a movement of +utter despair, flung his head into his hands, and cried. + +Olva, standing straight with his hands at his side, looked through his +window at the world---at the white lights on the lower sky, at the pearl +grey roofs and the little cutting of dim white street and the high grey +college wall. He was to begin again, it seemed, at the state in which +he'd been on the day after Carfax's murder. Then he had been sure that +arrest would only be a question of hours and he had resolutely faced it +with the resolve that he would drain all the life, all the vigour, all +the fun from the minutes that remained to him. + +Now he had come back to that. Craven would give him away, perhaps . . . +he would, at any rate, drive him away from Margaret. But he would almost +certainly feel it his duty to expose him. He would feel that that would +end the complication with his sister once and for all---the easiest way. +He would feel it his duty---these people and their duty! + +Well, at least he would have his game of football first---no one could +take his afternoon away from him. Margaret would be there to watch him +and he would play! Oh! he would play as he had never played in his life +before! + +Bunning's voice came to him from a great distance--- + +"What are you going to do? What are you going to say to Craven?" + +"Say to him? Why, I shall tell him, of course---tell him everything." + +Bunning leapt from his chair. In his urgency he put his hands on Olva's +arm: "No, no, no. You mustn't do that. Why it will be as though I'd +murdered you. Tell him I did it. Make him believe it. You can---you're +clever enough. Make him feel that I did it. You mustn't, mustn't---let +him know. Oh, please, please. I'll kill myself if you do. I will +really." + +Olva gravely, quietly, put his hands on Bunning's shoulders. + +"It's all right---it had to come out. I've been avoiding it all this +time, escaping it, but it had to come. Don't you be afraid of it. I +daresay Craven won't do anything. After all he loves his sister and she +cares for him. That will influence him. But, anyhow, all that's done +with. There are bigger things in question than Craven knowing about +Carfax, and you were meant to tell him---you were really. You've just +forced me to see what's the right thing to do---that's all." + +Bunning was, surely, in the light of it, a romantic figure. + +Miss Annett came in with the lunch. + + +3 + +As Olva was changing into his football things, Cardillac appeared. + +"Come up to the field with me, will you? I've got a hansom." + +Olva finished tying his boots and stood up. Cardillac looked at him. + +"My word, you seem fit." + +"Yes, I'm splendid, thanks." + +He felt splendid. Never before had he been so conscious of the right to +be alive. His football clothes smelt of the earth and the air. He moved +his arms and legs with wonderful freedom. His blood was pumping through +his body as though death, disease, infirmity such things---were of +another planet. + +For such a man as he there should only be air, love, motion, the +begetting of children, the surprising splendour of a sudden death. Now +already Craven was waiting for him. + +He had sent a note round to Craven's rooms; he had said, "Come in to see +me after the match---five o'clock. I have something to tell you." + +At five o'clock then. . . . + +Meanwhile it was nice of Cardillac to come. They exchanged no words +about it, but they understood one another entirely. It was as though +Cardillac had said---"I expect that you're going to knock me out of this +Rugger Blue as you knocked me out of the Wolves, and I want to show you +that we're pals all the way through." + +What Cardillac really said was---"Have a cigarette? These are Turkish. +Feel like playing a game to-day?" + +"Never felt better in my life." + +"Well, these Dublin fellows haven't had their line crossed yet this +season. May one of us have the luck to do it." + +"Pretty hefty lot of forwards." + +"Yes, O'Brien's their spot Three I believe." + +Olva and Cardillac attracted much attention as they walked through +the College. Miss Annett, watching them from a little window where she +washed plates, gulped in her thin throat with pride for "that Mr. Dune. +There's a gentleman!" The sun above the high grey buildings broke slowly +through yellow clouds. The roads were covered with a thin fine mud and, +from the earth, faint clouds of mist rose and vanished into a sky that +was slowly crumbling from thick grey into light watery blue. + +The cold air beat upon their faces as the hansom rattled past Dunstan's, +over the bridge, and up the hill towards the field. + +Cardillac talked. "There goes Braff. He doesn't often come up to a +game nowadays--must be getting on for seventy--the greatest half the +'Varsity's ever had, I suppose." + +"It's a good thing this mud isn't thicker. It won't make the ball bad. +That game against Monkstown the other day! My word. . . ." + +But Olva was not listening. It seemed to him now that two separate +personalities were divided in him so sharply that it was impossible to +reconcile them. + +There was Olva Dune concentrating all his will, his mentality, upon the +game that he was about to play. This was his afternoon. After it there +would be darkness, death, what you will--parting from Margaret--all +purely physical emotions. + +The other Olva felt nothing physical. The game, confession to Rupert, +trial, imprisonment, even separation from Margaret, all these things +were nothing in comparison with some great business that was in progress +behind it all, as real life may go on behind the painted back cloth of a +stage. Here were amazing happenings, although at present he was confused +and bewildered by them. It was not that Olva was, actually, at the +instant conscious of actual impressions, but rather that great emotions, +great surprising happiness, seemed to shine on some horizon. It was as +though something had said to his soul, "Presently you will feel a joy, a +splendour, that you had never in your wildest thoughts imagined." + +The pursuit was almost at an end. He was now enveloped, enfolded. +Already everything to him--even his love for Margaret--was trivial in +comparison with the effect of some atmosphere that was beginning to hem +him in on every side. + +But against all this was the other Olva--the Olva who desired physical +strength, love, freedom, health. + +Well, let it all be as confusing as it might, he would play his game. +But as he walked into the Pavilion he knew that the prelude to his real +life had only a few more hours to run. . . . + + +4 + +As he passed, with the rest of the team, up the field, he observed two +things only; one thing was Margaret, standing on the left side of the +field just below the covered stand--he could see her white face and her +little black hard hat. + +The other thing was that on the horizon where the wall at the further +end of the field cut the sky there were piled, as though resting on the +top of the wall, high white clouds. For a moment these clouds, piled in +mountain shape of an intense whiteness with round curving edges, held +his eyes because they exactly resembled those clouds that had hung above +him on the day of his walk to Sannet Wood--the day when he had been +caught by the snowstorm. These clouds brooded, waiting above him; their +dazzling white had the effect of a steady, unswerving gaze. + +They lined out. He took his place as centre three-quarter with Cardillac +outside left and Tester and Buchan on the other wing. Old Lawrence +was standing, a solid rock of a figure, back. There was a great crowd +present. The tops of the hansom cabs in the road beyond rose above the +wall, and he could hear, muffled with distance, shots from the 'Varsity +firing range. + +All these things focussed themselves upon his brain in the moment before +the whistle went; the whistle blew, the Dublin men had kicked off, +Tester had fielded the ball, sent it back into touch, and the game had +begun. + +This was to be the game of his life and yet he could not centre his +attention upon it. He was conscious that Whymper--the great Whymper--was +acting as linesman and watching every movement. He knew that for most +of that great crowd his was the figure that was of real concern, he +knew that he was as surely battling for his lady as though he had been +fighting, tournament-wise, six hundred years ago. + +But it all seemed of supreme unimportance. To-night he was to face +Rupert, to state, once and for all, that he had killed Carfax, to submit +Margaret to a terrible test . . . even that of no importance. All life +was insignificant beside something that was about to happen; before the +gaze of that white dazzling cloud be felt that he stood, a little pigmy, +alone on a brown spreading field. + +The game was up at the University end. The Dublin men were pressing and +the Cambridge forwards seemed to have lost their heads. It was a case +now of "scrum," lining out, and "scrum" again. The Cambridge men got the +ball, kept it between their heels and tried, desperately to wheel with +it and carry it along with them. It escaped them, dribbled out of the +scrimmage, the Cambridge half leapt upon it, but the Dublin man was upon +him before he could get it away. It was on the ground again, the Dublin +forwards dribbled it a little and then some one, sweeping it into his +arms, fell forward with it, over the line, the Cambridge men on top of +him. + +Dublin had scored a try, and a goal from an easy angle followed--Dublin +five points. + +They all moved back to the centre of the field and now the Cambridge +men, rushing the ball from a line-out in their favour, pressed hard. At +last the ball came to the three-quarters. Tester caught it, it passed to +Buchan, who as he fell flung it right out to Cardillac; Cardillac draw +his man, swerved, and sent it back to Olva. As Olva felt the neat hard +surface of it, as he knew that the way was almost clear before him, his +feet seemed clogged with heavy weights. Something was about to happen to +him--something, but not this. The crowd behind the ropes were shouting, +he knew that he was himself running, but it seemed that only his body +was moving, his real self was standing back, gazing at those white +clouds--waiting. + +He knew that he made no attempt to escape the man in front of him; he +seemed to run straight into his arms; he heard a little sigh go up from +behind the ropes, as he tumbled to the ground, letting the ball trickle +feebly from his fingers. A try missed if ever one was! + +No one said anything, but he felt the disappointment in the air. He +knew what they were saying--"One of Dune's off days! I always said you +couldn't depend upon the man. He's just too sidey to care what happens. +. . ." + +Well they might say it if they would; his eyes were on the horizon. + +But his failure had had its effect. Let there be an individualist in +the line and Tester and Buchan would play their well-ordered game to +perfection. They relied as a rule upon Whymper--to-day they had depended +upon Dune. Well Dune had failed them, the forwards were heeling so +slowly, the scrum-half was never getting the ball away--it was a +miserable affair. + +The Dublin forwards pressed again. For a long time the two bodies of men +swayed backwards and forwards; in the University twenty-five Lawrence +was performing wonders. He seemed to be everywhere at once, bringing +men down, seizing, in a lightning flash of time, his opportunity for +relieving by kicking into touch. + +Twice the ball went to the Dublin three-quarters and they seemed +certainly in, but on the first occasion a man slipped and on the second +Olva caught his three-quarter and brought him sharply to the ground. It +was the only piece of work that he had done. + +More struggling--then away on the right some Dublin man had caught it +and was running. Some one dashed at him to hurl him into touch, but he +slipped past and was in. + +Another try--the kick was again successful--Dublin ten points. + +The half-time whistle blew. As the met gathered into groups in the +middle of the field, sucking lemons and gathering additional melancholy +there from, Olva stood a little away from them. Whymper came out into +the field to exhort and advise. As he passed Olva he said-- + +"Rather missed that try of yours. Ought to have gone a bit faster." + +He did not answer, it seemed to be no concern of his at all. He was now +trembling it every limb, but his excitement had nothing to do with +the game. It seemed to him that the earth and the sky were sharing his +emotion am he could feel in the air a great exaltation. I was becoming +literally true for him that earth air, sky were praising at this moment, +in wonderful unison, some great presence. + +"All things betray Thee who betrayest Me. . . ." Now he understood what +that line had intended him to feel--the very sods crushed by his boots +were leading him to submission. + +The whistle sounded. His back now was turned to the white clouds; he was +facing the high stone wall and the tops of the hansom cabs. + +The game began again. The Dublin men were determined to drive their +advantage to victory. Another goal and their lead might settle, once and +for all, the issue. + +Olva was standing back, listening. The earth was humming like a top. A +voice seemed to be borne on the wind--"Coming, Coming, Coming." + +He felt that the clouds were spreading behind him and a little wind +seemed to be whispering in the grass--"Coming, Coming, Coming." His very +existence now was strung to a pitch of expectation. + +As in a dream he saw that a Dublin man with the ball had got clear away +from the clump of Cambridge forwards, and was coming towards him. Behind +him only was Lawrence. He flung himself at the man's knees, caught them, +falling himself desperately forward. They both came crashing to the +ground. It was a magnificent collar, and Olva, as he fell, heard, as +though it were miles away, a rising shout, saw the sky bend down to him, +saw the ball as it was jerked up rise for a moment into the air--was +conscious that some one was running. + + +5 + +He was on his knees, alone, on the vast field that sloped a little +towards the horizon. + +Before him the mountain clouds were now lit with a clear silver light so +dazzling that his eyes were lowered. + +About him was a great silence. He was himself minute in size, a tiny, +tiny bending figure. + +Many years passed. + +A great glory caught the colour from the sky and earth and held it like +a veil before the cloud. + +In a voice of the most radiant happiness Olva cried-- + +"I have fled--I am caught--I am held . . . Lord, I submit." + +And for the second time he heard God's voice-- + +"My Son . . . My Son." + +He felt a touch--very gentle and tender--on his shoulder. + + +6 + +Many years had passed. He opened his eyes and saw the ball that had been +rising, many years ago, now falling. + +The man whom he had collared was climbing to his feet; behind them men +were bending down for a "scrum." The shout that he had heard when he had +fallen was still lingering in the air. + +And yet many years had passed. + +"Hope you're not hurt," the Dublin man said. "Came down hard." + +"No, thanks, it's all right." + +Olva got on to his feet. Some one cried, "Well collared, Dune." + +He ran back to his place. Now there was no hesitation or confusion. A +vigour like wine filled his body. The Cambridge men now were pressing; +the ball was flung back to Cardillac, who threw to Olva. The Dublin line +was only a few yards away and Olva was over. Lawrence kicked a goal and +Cambridge had now five points to the Dublin ten. + +Cambridge now awoke to its responsibilities. The Dublin men seemed to be +flagging a little, and Tester and Buchan, having apparently decided that +Olva was himself again, played their accustomed game. + +But what had happened to Dune? There he had been his old casual superior +self during the first half of the game. Now he was that inspired player +that the Harlequin match had once revealed him. Whymper had spoken to +him at half-time. That was what it was--Whymper had roused him. + +For he was amazing. He was everywhere. Even when he had been collared, +he was suddenly up, had raced after the three-quarter line, caught them +up and was in the movement again. Five times the Cambridge Threes were +going, were half-way down the field, and were checked by the wonderful +Dublin defence. Again and again Cambridge pressed. There were only ten +minutes left for play and Cambridge were still five points behind. + +Somebody standing in the crowd said, "By Jove, Dune seems to be enjoying +it. I never saw any one look as happy." + +Some one else said, "Dune's possessed by a devil or something. I never +saw anything like that pace. He doesn't seem to be watching the game at +all, though." + +Some one said, "There's going to be a tremendous snowstorm in a minute. +Look at those white clouds." + +Then, when there were five minutes more to play, there was a forward +rush over the Dublin line--a Cambridge man, struggling at the bottom +of a heap of legs and arms, touched down. A Dublin appeal was made for +"Carried over," but--no--"Try for Cambridge." + +A deafening shout from behind the ropes, then a breathless pause whilst +Lawrence stepped back to take the kick, then a shattering roar as the +ball sailed between the posts. + +Ten points all and three minutes left to play. + +They were back to the centre, the Dublin men had kicked, Tester had +gathered and returned to touch. There was a line-out, a Cambridge man +had the ball and fell, Cambridge dribbled past the ball to the half, the +ball was in Cardillac's hands. + +Let this be ever to Cardillac's honour! Fame of a lifetime might have +been his, the way was almost clear before him--he passed back to Olva. +The moment had come. The crowd fell first into a breathless silence, +then screamed with excitement-- + +"Dune's got it. He's off!" + +He had a crowd of men upon him. Handing off, bending, doubling, almost +down, slipping and then up again--he was through them. + +The great clouds were gathering the grey sky into their white arms. Mr. +Gregg, at the back of the stand, forgetting for once decorum, white and +trembling, was hoarse with shouting. + +Olva's body seemed so tiny on that vast field--two Dublin three-quarters +came for him. He appeared to run straight into the arms of both of them +and then was through them. They started after him--one man was running +across field to catch him. It was a race. Now there fell silence as the +three men tore after the flying figure. Surely never, in the annals of +Rugby football, had any one run as Olva ran then. Only now the Dublin +back, and he, missing the apparent swerve to the right, clutched +desperately at Olva's back, caught the buckle of his "shorts" and stood +with the thing torn off in his hand. + +He turned to pursue, but it was too late. Olva had touched down behind +the posts. + +As he started back with the ball the wide world seemed to be crying and +shouting, waving and screaming. + +Against the dull grey sky far away an ancient cabman, standing on the +top of his hansom, flourished his whip. + +But as he stood there the shouting died--the crowds faded--alone there +on the brown field with the white high clouds above him, Olva was +conscious, only, of the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY + +1 + +He had a bath, changed his clothes, and sitting before his fire waited. + +As he looked around his room he knew that he was leaving it for ever. +What ever might be the issue of his conversation with Rupert, he knew +that that at any rate was true; he would never return here again--or he +would not return until he had worked out his duty. He looked about +him regretfully; he had grown very fond of that room and the things +in it--the shape of it, the books, the blue bowls, the bright fire, +"Aegidius" (but he would take "Aegidius" with him). He looked last at +the photograph of his father, the rocky eyes, the flowing beard, the +massive shoulders. + +It was back to him that he was going, and he would walk all the way. +Walking alone he would listen, he would watch, he would wait, and then, +in that great silence, he would be told what he must do. + +In the pleasant crackle of the fire, in the shaded light of the lamp, in +the starlit silence of the College Courts, there seemed such safety; in +his heart there was such happiness; in that moment of waiting for Rupert +Craven to come he learnt once and for all that, in very _truth_, there +is no gift, no reward, no joy that can equal "the Peace of God," nor is +there any temporal danger, disease or agony that can threaten its power. + +As the last notes of the clock in Outer Court striking five died away +Rupert Craven came in. If he had seemed tired and worn-out before, now +the overwhelming impression that he gave was of an unhappiness from +which he seemed to have no outlet. He was young enough to be tormented +by the determination to do the right thing; he was young enough to give +his whole devotion to his sister; he was young enough to admire, against +all determination, Olva's presence and prowess and silence; he was young +enough to be haunted, night and day, by the terrors of his imagination; +he was young enough to be amazed at finding the world a place of +Life and Death; he was young enough finally to be staggered that he +personally should be drawn into the struggle. + +But now, just now, as he stood in the doorway, he was simply tired, +tired out. He pulled himself together with the obvious intention of +being cold and fierce and judicial. He had cornered Dune at last, he +had driven him to confession, he was a fine fellow, a kind of Fate, the +Supreme Judge . . . this is what he doubtless desired to feel; but he +wished that Dune had not played so wonderful a game that afternoon, that +Dune did not now--at this moment of complete disaster and ruin--look +so strangely happy, that he were himself not so utterly wretched and +conscious of his own failure to do anything as it ought to be done. He +did his best; he refused to sit down, he remained as still as possible, +he looked over Dune's head in order to avoid those shining eyes. + +The eyes caught him. + +"Craven, why have you been badgering the wretched Bunning?" + +"I thought you asked me to come here to tell me something--I didn't +come to answer questions." + +"We'll come to my part of it in a moment. But I think it's only fair to +answer me first." + +"What have you got to do with Bunning?" + +"That's not, immediately, the point. The thing I want to know is, why +you should have chosen, during the last week, to go and torment the +hapless Bunning until you've all but driven him out of his wits." + +"I don't see what it's got to do with you." + +"It's got this much to do with me--that he came to me this morning with +a story so absurd that it proves that he can't be altogether right in +his head. He told me that he had confided this absurd story to you." + +There was no answer. + +"I don't suppose," Olva went on at last gently, "that we've either of +us got very much time, and there's a great deal to be done, so let's +go straight to it. Bunning told me this morning that he declared to you +yesterday that he--of all people in the world--had murdered Carfax." + +"Yes," at last Craven sullenly muttered, "he told me that." + +"And of course you didn't believe it?" + +"I didn't believe that _he'd_ done it--no. But he knows who _did_ do it. +He's got all the details. Some one has told him." + +Craven was trembling. Olva pushed a chair towards him. + +"Look here, you'd better sit down." + +Craven sat down. + +"I know that some one told him," Olva said quietly, "because I told +him." + +"Then you know who----" Craven's voice was a whisper. + +"I know," said Olva, "because it was I who killed Carfax." + +Craven took it---the moment for which he'd been waiting so long--in the +most amazing way. + +"Oh!" he cried, like a child who has cut its finger. "Oh! I wish +you hadn't!" There was the whole of Craven's young struggle with an +astounding world in that cry. + +Then, after that, there was a long silence, and had some one come into +the room he would have looked at the two men before the fire and have +supposed that they were gently and comfortably falling off to sleep. + +Olva at last said; "Of course I know that you have suspected me for a +long time. Everything played into your hands. I have done my very utmost +to prevent your having positive proof of the thing, but that part of the +business is now done with. You know, and you can do what you please with +the knowledge." + +But, now that the moment had come, Rupert Craven could do nothing with +it. + +"I don't want to do anything," he muttered at last. "I'm not up to doing +anything. I don't understand it. I'm not the sort of fellow who ought to +be in this kind of thing at all." + +That was how he now saw it, as an unfair advantage that had been taken +of him. This point of view changed his position to the extent of his now +almost appealing to Olva to help him out of it. + +"Your telling me like that has made it all so difficult. I feel now +suddenly as though I hated Carfax and hadn't the least objection to +somebody doing for him. And _that's_ all wrong--murder's an awful +thing--one ought to feel bad about it." Then finally, with the cry of +a child in the dark, "But this _isn't_ life, it never _has_ been +life since that day I heard of Carfax being killed. It's the sort of +thing--it's been for weeks the sort of thing--that you read of in books +or see at the Adelphi; and I'm not that kind of fellow. I tell you I've +been mad all this last month, getting it on the brain, seeing things +night and day. My one idea was to make you own up to it, but I never +thought of what was going to happen when you did." + +Olva let him work it out. + +"Of course I never thought of you for an instant as the man until that +afternoon when you talked in your sleep. Then I began to think and I +remembered what Carfax had said about your hating him. Then I went with +your dog for a walk and we found your matchbox. After that I noticed all +sorts of things and, at the same time, I saw that you were in love with +Margaret. That made me mad. My sister is everything in the world to me, +and it seemed to me that--she should marry a fellow who . . . without +knowing! I began to be ill with it and yet I hadn't any real reasons to +bring forward. You wanted me to show my cards, but I wouldn't. Sometimes +I thought I really _was_ going mad. Then two things made me desperate. +I saw that you had some secret understanding with my mother and I +saw--that my sister loved you. We'd always been tremendous pals--we +three, and it seemed as though every one were siding against me. I saw +Margaret marrying you and mother letting her--although she knew . . . +it was awful--Hell!" + +He pressed his hands together, his voice shook: "I'd never been in +anything before--no kind of trouble--and now it seemed to put me right +on one side. I couldn't see straight. One moment I hated you, then I +admired you, and the oddest thing of all was that I didn't think about +the actual thing--your having killed Carfax--at all; everything else was +so much more important. I just wanted to be sure that you'd done it and +then--for you to go away and never see any of us again." + +Olva smiled. + +"Yes," he said. + +"But it wasn't until the 5th of November--the 'rag' night--that I was +quite sure. I knew then, when I saw you hitting that fellow, that +you'd killed Carfax. But, of course, that wasn't proof. Then I noticed +Bunning. I saw that he was always with you, and of course it was an +odd sort of friendship for you to have; I could see, too, that he'd got +something on his mind. I went for him--it was all easy enough--and at +last he broke down. Then I'd got you----" + +"You've got me," said Olva. + +Rupert looked him, slowly, in the face. "You're wonderful!" Then he +added, almost wistfully, "If Margaret hadn't loved you it wouldn't +really any of it have mattered. I suppose that's very immoral, but +that's what it comes to. Margaret's everything in the world to me and +you must tell her." + +"Of course I will tell her," Olva said. "That's what I ought to have +done from the beginning. That's what I was _meant_ to do. But I had +to be driven to it. What will you do, Craven, if it doesn't matter to +her--if she doesn't care whether I killed Carfax or no?" + +"At least you'll have told her," the boy replied firmly. "At least +she'll know. Then it's for her to decide. She'll do the right thing," he +ended proudly. + +"And what do you think that is?" Olva asked him. + +"I don't know," he answered. "This seems to have altered everything. I +ought now to be hating you--I don't. I ought to shudder at the sight of +you--I don't. The Carfax business seems to have slipped right back, to +be ages ago, not to matter. All I suppose I wanted was to be reassured +about you--if Margaret loved you. And now I _am_ reassured. I believe +you know what to do." + +"Yes, I know what to do," said Olva. "I'm going away to-morrow for a +long time. I shall always love Margaret--there can never be any one +else--but I shall not marry her unless I can come back cleared." + +"And who--what--can clear you?" + +"Ah! who knows! There'll be something for me to do, I expect. . . . I +will see Margaret to-morrow--and say good-bye." + +Craven's face was white, the eyelids had almost closed, his head hung +forward as though it were too heavy to support. + +"I'm just about done," he murmured, "just about done. It's been all +a beastly dream . . . and now you're all right--you and Margaret--I +haven't got to bother about her any more." + + +2 + +After hall Olva went to Cardillac's room for the last time. No one there +knew that it was for the last time. It seemed to them all that he was +just beginning to come out, to be one of them. The football match +of that afternoon had been wonderful enough for anything, and the +excitement of it lingered still about Cardillac's rooms, thick now with +tobacco-smoke, crowded with men, noisy with laughter. The air was so +strong with smoke, the lights so dim, the voices so many, that Olva +finding a corner near an open window slipped, it might almost seem, from +the world. Outside the snow, threatening all day, now fell heavily; the +old Court took it with a gentleness that showed that the snow was meant +for it, and the snow covered the grey roofs and the smooth grass with +a satisfaction that could almost be heard, so deep was it. Just this +little window-pane between the world that Olva was leaving and the world +to which he was going! + +He caught fragments: "Just that last run--gorgeous--but old Snodky says +that that horse of his---" + +"My dear fellow, you take it from me--they can't get on without +it. . . . Now a girl I know----" + +"They fairly fell upon one another's necks and hugged. Talk of the +fatted calf! Now if I'd asked the governor----" + +Around him there came, with a poignancy, a beauty, that, now that he was +to lose it all, was like a wound, the wonder of this Cambridge. Then he +had it, the marvellous moment! On the other side of the window the +still court, a few twinkling lights, the powdering snow--and here the +vitality, the energy, the glowing sense of two thousand souls marching +together upon Life and seizing it, with a shout, lifting it, stepping +out with it as though it were one long glory! Afterwards what matter? +There had been the moment, never to be forgotten! Cambridge, the +beautiful threshold! + +For an instant the sense of his own forthcoming journey--away from life, +as it seemed to him--caught him as he sat there. "What will God do with +me?" + +From the outer world through the whispering snow, he caught the echo of +the Voice--"My Son . . . My Son." + +Soon he heard Lawrence's tremendous laugh--"Where's Dune? Is he here?" + +Lawrence found him and sat down beside him. + +"By Jupiter, old man, I was frightened for you this afternoon. Until +half-time you were drugged or somethin', and there was I prayin' to my +Druids all I was worth to put back into you. And, my word, they did it +I Talk about that second half--never saw anythin' like it! Have a drink, +old man!" + +"No, thanks. Yes, I didn't seem to get on to it at all at first." + +"Well, you're fixed for Queen's Club--just heard--got your Blue all +right. You and Whymper ought to do fine things between you, although +stickin' two individualists together on the same wing like that ain't +exactly my idea, and they don't as a rule settle the team as early +as this"--Lawrence put a large hand on Olva's knee. "Goin' home for +Christmas?" he said. + +"I expect so." + +"Well, yer see--I've got a sort of idea. I wish this vac, you'd come +an' stay with us for a bit. Good old sorts, my people. Governor quite +a brainy man--and you could talk, you two. There'll be lots of people +tumblin' about the place--lots goin' on, and the governor'll like to +have a sensible feller once in a way . . . and I'd like it too," he +ended at the bottom of his gruff voice. + +"Well, you see;" Olva explained, "it depends a bit on my own father. +He's all alone up there at our place, and I like to be with him as much +as possible." Olva looked through the window at the snow, grey against +the sky, white against the college walls. "I don't quite know where I +shall be--I think you must let me write to you." + +"Oh! _that's_ all right," said Lawrence. "I want you to come along some +time. You'd like the governor--and if you don't mind listening to an ass +like me--well, I'd take it as an honour if you'd talk to me a bit." + +As Olva looked Lawrence in the eyes he knew that it would be well with +him if, in his journey through the world, he met again so good a soul. +Cardillac joined them and they all talked for a little. Then Olva said +good-night. + +He turned for a moment at the door and looked back. Some one at the +other end of the room was singing "Egypt" to a cracked piano. A babel +of laughter, of chatter, every now and again men tumbled against one +another, like cubs in a cave, and rolled upon the floor. Lawrence, +his feet planted wide apart, was standing in the middle of an admiring +circle, explaining something very slowly. + +"If the old scrum-half," he was saying, "only stood back enough---" + +What a splendid lot they were! What a life it was! So much joy in the +heart of so much beauty! . . . Cambridge! + +As he crossed the white court the strains of "Egypt" came, like a +farewell, through the tumbling snow. + +There was still a thing that he must do. He went to say good-bye to +Bunning. He thought with surprise as he climbed the stairs that this was +the first time that he'd ever been to Bunning's room. It had always been +Bunning who had come to him. He would always see that picture---Bunning +standing, clumsily, awkwardly in the doorway. Poor Bunning! + +When Olva came in he was sitting in a very old armchair, staring into +the fire, his hair on end and his tie above his collar. Olva watched him +for a moment, the face, the body, everything about him utterly dejected; +the sound of Olva's entrance did not at once rouse him. When at last he +saw who it was he started up, his face flushing crimson. + +"You!" he cried. + +"Yes," said Olva, "I've come to tell you that everything's all right." + +For a moment light touched Bunning's eyes, then slowly he shook his +head. + +"Things can't be all right. It's gone much too far." + +"My dear Bunning, I've seen Craven. I've told him. I assure you that all +is well." + +"You told him?" + +"Everything. That I killed Carfax--he knew it, of course, long ago. He +went fast asleep at the end of it." + +Bunning shook his head again, wearily. "It's all no good. You're +saying these things to comfort me. Even if Craven didn't do anything he +wouldn't let you marry his sister now. That's more important than being +hung." + +"If it hadn't been for you," Olva said slowly, "I should have gone on +wriggling. You've made me come out into the open. 'I'm going to tell +Miss Craven everything to-morrow." + +"What will she do?" + +"I don't know. She'll do the right thing. After that I'm going away." + +"Going away?" + +"Yes. I want to think about things. I've never thought about anything +except myself. I'm going to tramp it home, and after that I shall find +out what I'm going to do." + +"And Miss Craven?" + +"I shall come back to her one day--when I'm fit for it--or rather, _if_ +I'm fit for it. But that's enough about myself. I only wanted to tell +you, Bunning, before I go that I shall never forget your telling Craven. +You're lucky to have been able to do so fine a thing. We shall meet +again later on--I'll see to that." + +Bunning, his whole body strung to a desperate appeal, caught Olva's +hand. "Take me with you, Dune. Take me with you. I'll be your +servant--anything you like. I'll do anything if you'll let me come. I +won't be a nuisance--I'll never talk if you don't want me to--I'll do +everything you tell me--only let me come. You're the only person +who's ever shown me what I might do. I might be of use if I were with +you--otherwise----" + +"Rot, Bunning. You've got plenty to do here. I'm no good yet for +anybody. One day perhaps we'll meet again. I'll write to you. I promise +not to forget you. How could I? and one day I'll come back---" + +Bunning moved away, his head banging. "You must think me an awful +fool--of course you do. I am, I suppose. I'd be awful to be with for +long at a time--of course I see that. But I don't know what to do. If +I go home and tell them I'm not going to be a parson it'll be terrible. +They'll all be at me. Not directly. They won't say anything, but they'll +have people to talk to me. They'll fill the house--they won't spare any +pains. And then, at last, being all alone, I shall give in. I know I +shall, I'm not clever or strong. And I shall be ordained--and then +it'll be hell. I can see it all. You came into my life and made it all +different, and now you're going out of it again and it will be worse +than ever---" + +"I won't go out of it," said Olva. "I'll write if you'd like--and +perhaps we'll meet. I'll be always your friend. And--look here--I'll +tell Margaret--Miss Craven--about you, and she'll ask you to go and see +her, and if you two are friends it'll be a kind of alliance between all +of us, won't it?" + +Bunning was happier--"Oh, but she'll think me such an ass!" + +"Oh no, she won't, she's much too clever, And, Bunning, don't let +yourself be driven by people. Stick to the thing you want to do--you'll +find something all right. Just go on here and wait until you're shown. +Sit with your ears open----" + +Bunning filled his mouth with toast. "If you'll write to me and keep up +with me I'll do anything." + +"And one thing--Don't tell any one I'm going. I shall just slip out of +college early the day after to-morrow. I don't want any one to know. +It's nobody's affair but mine." + +Then he held out his hand--"Good-bye, Bunning, old man." + +"Good-bye," said Bunning. + +When Olva had gone he sat down by the fire again, staring. + +Some hours afterwards he spoke, suddenly, aloud: "I can stand the lot of +them now." + +Then he went to bed. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +OLVA AND MARGARET + +1 + +On the next evening the sun set with great splendour. The frost had come +and hardened the snow and all day the sky bad been a pale frozen blue, +only on the horizon fading into crocus yellow. + +The sun was just vanishing behind the grey roofs when Olva went to +Rocket Road. All day he had been very busy destroying old letters and +papers and seeing to everything so that he should leave no untidiness +nor carelessness behind him. Now it was all over. To-morrow morning, +with enough money but not very much, and with an old rucksack that he +had once had on a walking tour, he would set out. He did not question +this decision--he knew that it was what he was intended to do--but it +was the way that Margaret would take his confession that would make that +journey hard or easy. + +He did not know--that was the surprising thing--how she would take it. +He knew her so little. He only knew that he loved her and that she would +do, without flinching, the thing that she felt was right. Oh! but it +would be difficult! + +The house, the laurelled drive, the little road, the distant moor and +wood--these things had to-night a gentle air. Over the moor the setting +sun flung a red flame; the woods burned black; the laurels were heavy +with snow and a robin hopped down the drive as Olva passed. + +He found Margaret in the drawing-room, and here, too, he fancied that +there was more light and air than on other days. + +When the old woman had left the room he suddenly caught Margaret to him +and kissed her as though he would never let her go. She clung to him +with her hands. Then he stood gravely away from her. + +"There," he said, "that is the last time that I may kiss you before I +have told you what it is that I have come here to say. But first may I +go up to your mother for a moment?" + +"Yes," Margaret said, "if you will not be very long. I do not think that +I can have much more patience." Then she added more slowly, gazing into +his face, "Rupert said last night that you would have something to tell +me to-day. I have been waiting all day for you to come. But Rupert was +his old self last night, and he talked to mother and has made her happy +again. Oh! I think that everything is going to be right!" + +"I will soon come down to you," he said. + +Mrs. Craven's long dark room was lit by the setting sun; beyond her +windows the straight white fields lifted shining splendour to the stars +already twinkling in the pale sky. Candles were lit on a little black +table by her sofa and the fire was red deep in its cavernous setting. + +He stood for a moment in the dim room facing the setting sun, and the +light of the fire played about his feet and the pale glow that stole up +into the evening from the snowy fields touched his face. + +She knew as she looked at him that something bad given him great peace. + +"I've come to say good-bye," he said. Then he sat down by her side. + +"No," she said, smiling, "you mustn't go. We want you--Rupert and +Margaret and I. . . ." Then softly, as though to herself, she repeated +the words, "Rupert and Margaret and I." + +"Dear Mrs. Craven, one day I will come back. But tell me, Rupert spoke +to you last night?" + +"Yes, he has made me so very happy. Last night we were the same again as +we used to be, and even, I think, more than we have ever been. Rupert is +growing up." + +"Yes--Rupert is growing up. Did he tell you why he had, during these +weeks, been so strange and unhappy?" + +"No, he gave me no real explanation. But I think that it was the +terrible death of his friend Mr. Carfax--I think that that had preyed +upon his mind." + +"No, Mrs. Craven, it was more than that. He was unhappy because he knew +that it was I that had killed Carfax." + +He saw a little movement pass over her--her hand trembled against her +dress. For some time they sat together there in silence, and the red sun +slipped down behind the fields; the room was suddenly dark except for +the yellow pool of light that the candles made and for the strange gleam +by the window that came from the snow. + +At last she said, "Now I understand--now I understand." + +"I killed him in anger--it was quite fair. No one had any idea except +Rupert, but everything helped to show him that it was I. When he saw +that I loved Margaret he was very unhappy. He saw that we had some kind +of understanding together and he thought that I had told you and that +you sympathize with me. I am going down now to tell Margaret." + +"Poor, poor Olva." It was the first time that she had called him by his +Christian name. She took his hand. "Both of us together--the same thing. +I have paid, God knows I have paid, and soon, I hope, it will be over. +But your life is before you." + +He looked out at the evening fields. "I'm going down now to tell +Margaret. And tomorrow I shall set out. I will not come back to Margaret +until I know that I am cleared--but I want you, while I am away, to +think of me sometimes and to talk of me sometimes to Margaret. And one +day, perhaps, I shall know that I may come back." + +She put her thin hands about his head and drew it down to her and kissed +him. + +"There will never be a time when you are not in my mind," she said. "I +love you as though you were my own son. I had hoped that you would be +here often, but now I see that it is right for you to go. I know that +Margaret will wait for you. Meanwhile an old woman loves you." + +He kissed her and left her. + +At the door through the dark room he heard her thin voice: "May God +bless you and keep you." + +He went to perform his hardest task. + + +2 + +It was the harder in that for a little while he seemed to be left +absolutely alone. The room was dark save for the leaping light of the +fire in the deep stone fireplace, and as he saw Margaret standing there +waiting for him, desperately courageous, he only knew that he loved her +so badly that, for a little while, he could only stand there staring at +her, twisting his hands together, speechless. + +"Well," at last she said. "Come and sit down and tell me all about it." +But her voice trembled a little and her eyes were wide, frightened, +begging him not to hurt her. + +He sat down near her, before the fire, and she instinctively, as though +she knew that this was a very tremendous matter, stood away from him, +her hands clasped together against her black dress. + +Suddenly now, before he spoke, he realized what it would mean to him +if she could not forgive what he had done. He had imagined it once +before--the slow withdrawal of her eyes, the gradual tightening of the +lips, the little instinctive movement away from him. + +If he must go out into the world, having lost her, he thought that he +could never endure, God or no God, the long dreary years in front of +him. + +At last he was brave: "Margaret--at first I want you to know that I +love you with all my heart and soul and body; that nothing that can +ever happen to me can ever alter that love--that I am yours, entirely, +always. And then I want you to know that I am not worthy to love you, +that I ought never to have asked you to love me, that I ought to have +gone away the first time that I saw you." + +She made a little loving, protecting movement towards him with her hands +and then let them drop against her dress again. + +"I ought never to have loved you--because--only a day or two before I +met you--I had killed Carfax, Rupert's friend." + +The words as they fell seemed to him like the screams that iron bolts +give as a gate is barred. + +He whispered slowly the words again: "I killed Carfax"--and then he +covered his eyes with his hands so that he might not see her face. + +The silence seemed eternal--and she had made no movement. To fill that +silence he went on desperately-- + +"I had always hated him--there were many reasons--and one day we met +in Sannet Wood, quarrelled, and I hit him. The blow killed him. I don't +think I meant to kill him, but I wasn't sorry afterwards--I have never +felt remorse for _that_. There have been other things. . . . + +"Soon afterwards I met you--I loved you at once--you know that I +did--and I could not tell you. Oh! I tried--I struggled, pretty poor +struggling--but I could not. I thought that it was all over, that he +was dead and nobody knew. But God was wiser than that--Rupert knew. He +suspected and then he grew more sure, and at last he was quite certain. +Yesterday, after the football match, I told him and I promised him that +I would tell you . . . and I have told you." + +Silence again--and then suddenly there was movement, and there were arms +about him and a voice in his ear--"Poor, poor Olva . . . dear Olva . . . +how terrible it must have been!" + +He could only then catch her and hold her, and furiously press her +against him. "Oh, my dear, my dear--you don't mind!" + +They stayed together, like that, for a long time. + +He could not think clearly, but in the dim recesses of his mind he saw +that they had all--Mrs. Craven, Margaret, Rupert--taken it in the same +kind of way. Could it be that Margaret and Rupert living, although +unconsciously, in the shadow all their lives of just this crime, +breathing the air of it, and breathing it too with the other air of love +and affection--that they had thus, all unknowing, been quietly prepared? + +Or had they, each of them, their especial reason for excusing it? +Mrs. Craven from her great knowledge, Rupert from his great weariness, +Margaret from her great love? + +At last Margaret got up and sat down in a chair away from him. + +"Olva dear, you ought to have told me. If we had married and you had not +told me---" + +"I was so terribly afraid of losing you." + +"But it gives me now," her voice was almost triumphant, "something to +share with you, something to help you in, something to fight with you. +Now I can show you how much I love you. + +"How could you have supposed that I would mind? Do you think that a +woman, if she loves a man, cares for anything that he may do? If you +had killed a hundred men in Sannet Wood I would have helped you to bury +them. The thing that a woman demands most of love is that she may prove +it. I know that murder has a dreadful sound--but to meet your enemy face +to face, to strike him down because you hated him--" Her voice rose, her +eyes flashed--she raised her arms--"You must pay for it, Olva--but we +shall pay together." + +He knew now, as he watched her, that he had a harder thing to do than he +had believed possible. + +"No," he said, and his eyes could not face hers, "we can't pay +together--I must go alone." + +She laughed a little. "How can you go alone if we are together?" + +"We shall not be together. I go away, alone, to-morrow." + +He knew that her eyes were then, very slowly, searching his face. She +said, gently, after a moment's pause, "Tell me, Olva, what you mean. Of +course we are going together." + +"Oh, it is so hard for me!" He was fighting now as he had never fought. +Why not, even at this last moment, in spite of yesterday, defy God and +stay with her and keep her? In that moment of hesitation he suffered so +that the sweat came to his forehead and his eyes were filled with pain +and then were suddenly tired and dull. + +But he came out, and seemed now to stand above the room and look down on +his body and her body and to be filled with a great pity for them both. + +"Margaret dear, it's very hard for me to tell you. Will you be patient +with me and let me put things as clearly as I can--as _I_ see them?" + +She burst out, "Olva, you mustn't leave me, I---" Then she used all her +strength to bring control. Very quietly she ended--"Yes, Olva, tell me +everything." + +"It is so difficult because it is about God, and we all of us feel, and +rightly I expect, that it is priggish to talk about God at all. And then +I don't know whether I can give you everything as it happened because +it was all so unsubstantial and at the end of it any one might say 'But +this is nothing--nothing at all. You've been hysterical, nervous--that's +the meaning of it. You've nothing to show.' And yet if all the world +were to say that to me I should still have no doubt. I know, as I know +that we are sitting here, as I know that I love you, that what I say is +true." + +She brought her chair close to him and then put her band in his and +waited. + +"After I had killed Carfax--after his body had fallen and the wood +was very silent, I was suddenly conscious of God. I can't explain that +better. I can only say that I knew that some one had watched me, I knew +that the world would never be the same place again because some one had +watched me, and I knew that it was not because I had done wrong, but +because I had put myself into a new set of conditions that life would be +different now. I knew these things, and I went back to College. + +"I had never thought about God before, never at all. I had been entirely +heathen. Now I was sure of His existence in the way that one is sure of +wood when one touches it or water when one drinks it. + +"But I did not know at all what kind of God He was. I went to a Revival +meeting, but He was not there. He was not in the College Chapel. He was +not in any forms or ceremonies that I could discover. He might choose +to appear to other men in those different ways but not to me. Then a +fellow, Lawrence, told me about some old worship---Druids and their +altars--but He was not there. And all those days I was increasingly +conscious that there was some one who would not let me alone. It +fastened itself in my mind gradually as a Pursuit, and it seemed to me +too that, as the days passed, I began slowly to understand the nature +of the Pursuer--that He was kind and tender but also relentless, +remorseless. I was frightened. I flung myself into College things--games +and every kind of noise because I was so afraid of silence. And all the +time some one urged me to obedience. That was all that He demanded, that +I should be passive and obey His orders. I would have given in, I think, +very soon, but I met you." + +Her hand tightened in his and then, because he felt that her body was +trembling, he put his arm round her and held her. + +"I knew then when I loved you that I was being urged, by this God, to +confess everything to you. I became frightened; I should have trusted +you, but it was so great a risk. You were all that I had and if I +lost you life would have gone too. Those aren't mere words. . . . I +struggled, I tried every way of escape. And then everything betrayed me. +Rupert began to suspect, then to be sure. Whether I flung myself into +everything or hid in my room it was the same--God came closer and +closer. It was a perfectly real experience and I could see Him as a +great Shadow--not unkind, loving me, but relentless. Then the day came +that I proposed to you and I fainted. I knew then that I was not to be +allowed so easy a happiness. Still I struggled, but now God seemed to +have shut off all the real world and only left me the unreal one--and I +began to be afraid that I was going mad." + +She suddenly bent down and kissed him; she stayed then, until he had +finished, with her head buried in his coat. + +"It wasn't any good--I knew all the time that it could only end one +way. + +"Everything betrayed me, every one left me. I thought every moment that +Rupert would tell me. Then, one night when I was hardly sane, I told a +man, Bunning--a queer odd creature who was the last kind of person to be +told. He, in a fit of mad self-sacrifice, told Rupert that _he'd_ killed +Carfax, and then of course it was all over. + +"I suddenly yielded. It was as though God caught me and held me. I saw +Him, I heard Rim--yesterday--in the middle of the football. I know that +it was so. After that there could be only one thing--Obedience. I knew +that I must tell you. I have told you. I know, too, that I must go out +into the world, alone, and work out my duty . . . and then, oh! then, I +will come back." + +When he had finished, on his shoulder he seemed to feel once more a hand +gently resting. + +At last she raised her head, and clutching his hand as though she would +never let it go, spoke:-- + +"Olva, Olva, I don't understand. I don't think I believe in any God. +And, dear, see--it is all so natural. Thinking about what you had +done, thinking of it all alone, preyed on your nerves. Because Rupert +suspected you made it worse. You imagined things--everything. That is +all--Olva, really that is all." + +"Margaret, don't make it harder for both of us. I must go. There is no +question. I don't suppose that any one can see any one else's spiritual +experiences--one must be alone in that. Margaret dear, if I stayed with +you now--if we married--the Pursuit would begin again. God would hold me +at last--and then one day you would find that I had gone away--I would +have been driven--there would be terror for both of us then." + +She slipped on to her knees and caught his hands. + +"This is all unreal--utterly unreal. But our love for each other, that +is the only thing that can matter for either of us. You have lived in +your thoughts these weeks, imagined things, but think of what you do +if you leave me. You are all I have--you have become my world--I can't +live, I can't live, Olva, without you." + +"I must go. I must find what God is." + +"But listen, dear. You come to me to confess something. You find that +what you have done matters nothing to me. You say that you love me more +than ever, and, in the same moment, that you are going to leave me. Is +it fair to me? You give no reason. You do not know where you are going +or what you intend to do. You can give no definite explanation." + +"There is no explanation except that by what I did in Sannet Wood that +afternoon I put myself out of touch with human society until I had done +something _for_ human society. God has been telling me for many days +that I owe a debt. I have tried to avoid paying that debt. I tried +to escape Him because I knew that he demanded that I must pay my debt +before I could come to you. I see this as clearly as I saw yesterday the +high white clouds above the football field. God now is as real to me as +you are. It is as though for the rest of my life I must live in a house +with two persons. We cannot all live together until certain conditions +are granted. I go to make those conditions possible. Because I have +broken the law I am an outlaw. I am impelled to win my way back to +citizenship again. God will show me." + +"But this is air--all nerves. God is nothing. God does not exist." + +"God _does_ exist. I must work out His order and then I will come back +to you." + +She began to be frightened. She caught his coat in her hands, and +desperately pleaded. Then she saw his white set face, and the way that +his hands gripped the chair, and it was as though she had suddenly found +herself alone in the room. + +"Olva, don't leave me, don't leave me, Olva. I can't live without you. +I don't care what you've done. I'll bear everything with you. I'll come +away with you. I'll do anything if only you will let me be with you." + +"No, I must go alone." + +"But it can't matter--it can't matter. I'm so unimportant. You shall do +what you feel is your duty--only let me be there." + +"No, I must go alone." + +She began to cry, bitter, miserable, sobbing, sitting on the floor, away +from him. Her crying was the only sound in the room. + +He bent and touched her--"Margaret dear--you make it so hard." + +At last, in that strange beautiful way that she had, control seemed +suddenly to come to her; she stood up and looked as though she had, in +that brief moment, lived a thousand years of sorrow. + +"You will come back?" + +"I swear that I will come back to you." + +"I--I--will--wait for you." + +There, in the dim, unreal room, as they had stood once before, now, +standing, they were wrapt together. They were very young to feel such +depths of tragedy, to touch such heights of beauty. They were a long +time there together. + +"Margaret darling, you know that I will come back." + +"I know that you will come back." + +"Olva!" + +"Margaret!" + +He left her. + +Then, standing with outstretched arms, alone there, she who had but now +denied the Pursuer, cried to the dark room-- + +"God, God--send him back to me!" + +Some one promised her. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +FIRST CHAPTER + +The sun was rising, hard and red, over Sannet Wood and the white frozen +flats, when Olva Dune set out. . . . + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Prelude to Adventure, by Hugh Walpole + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE *** + +***** This file should be named 19085.txt or 19085.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/0/8/19085/ + +Produced by Andrew Hodson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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