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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b558200 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68676 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68676) diff --git a/old/68676-0.txt b/old/68676-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d484b80..0000000 --- a/old/68676-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10508 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The passionate year, by James Hilton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The passionate year - -Author: James Hilton - -Release Date: August 3, 2022 [eBook #68676] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by - Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PASSIONATE YEAR *** - - -THE PASSIONATE -YEAR - - - - -BY - -JAMES HILTON - - - - -BOSTON - -LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY - -1924 - - - - -CONTENTS - -BOOK I - -The Summer Term - -BOOK II - -The Winter Term - -INTERLUDE - -Christmas At Beachings Over - -BOOK III - -The Lent Term - - - - -BOOK I - - -THE SUMMER TERM - - - - -CHAPTER ONE - - -I - - -"Ah, um yes, Mr. Speed, is it not?... Welcome, sir! Welcome to -Millstead!" Kenneth Speed gripped the other's hand and smiled. He was a -tall passably good-looking fellow in his early twenties, bright-eyed and -brown-haired. At the moment he was feeling somewhat nervous, and always -when he felt nervous he did things vigorously, as if to obscure his -secret trepidation. Therefore when he took hold of the soft moist hand -that was offered him he grasped it in such a way that its possessor -winced and gave a perceptible gasp. - -"Delighted to meet you, sir," said the young man, briskly, and his -voice, like his action, was especially vigorous because of nervousness. -It was not nervousness of interviewing a future employer, or of -receiving social initiation into a new world; still less was it due to -any consciousness of personal inferiority; it was an intellectual -nervousness, based on an acute realisation of the exact moment when life -turns a fresh corner which may or may not lead into a blind alley. And -as Kenneth Speed felt the touch of this clammy elderly hand, he -experienced a sudden eager desire to run away, out of the dark study and -through the streets to the railway-station whence he had come. Absurd -and ignoble desire, he told himself, shrugging his shoulders slightly as -if to shake off an unpleasant sensation. He saw the past -kaleidoscopically, the future as a mere vague following-up of the -immediate present. A month ago he had been a resident undergraduate at -Cambridge. Now he was Kenneth Speed, B.A., Arts' Master at Millstead -School. The transformation seemed to him for the time being all that was -in life. - -It was a dull glowering day towards the end of April, most appropriately -melancholy for the beginning of term. It was one of those days when the -sun had been bright very early, and by ten o'clock the sky dappled with -white clouds; by noon the whiteness had dulled and spread to leaden -patches of grey; now, at mid-afternoon, a cold wintry wind rolled them -heavily across the sky and piled them on to the deep gloom of the -horizon. The Headmaster's study, lit from three small windows through -which the daylight, filtered by the thick spring foliage of lime trees, -struggled meagrely, was darker even than usual, and Speed, peering -around with hesitant inquisitive eyes, received no more than a confused -impression of dreariness. He could see the clerical collar of the man -opposite gleaming like a bar of ivory against an ebony background. - -The voice, almost as soft and clammy as the hand, went on: "I hope you -will be very comfortable here, Mr. Speed. We are--um yes--an old -foundation, and we have our--um yes--our traditions--and--um--so -forth.... You will take music and drawing, I understand?" - -"That was the arrangement, I believe." - -His eyes, by now accustomed to the gloom, saw over the top of the -dazzling white collar a heavy duplicated chin and sharp clean-cut lips, -lips in which whatever was slightly gentle was also slightly shrewd. -Above them a huge promontory of a nose leaned back into deep-set eyes -that had each a tiny spark in them that pierced the dusk like the -gleaming tips of a pair of foils. And over all this a wide blue-veined -forehead curved on to a bald crown on which the light shone mistily. -There was fascination of a sort in the whole impression; one felt that -the man might be almost physically a part of the dark study, -indissolubly one with the leather-bound books and the massive mahogany -pedestal-desk; a Pope, perhaps, in a Vatican born with him. And when he -moved his finger to push a bell at his elbow Speed started as if the -movement had been in some way sinister. - -"Ah yes, that will be all right--um--music and drawing. -Perhaps--um--commercial geography for the--um--lower forms, eh?" - -"I'm afraid I don't know much about commercial geography." - -"Oh, well--um yes--I suppose not. Still--easy to acquire, you know. Oh -yes, quite easy... Come in...." - -This last remark, uttered in a peculiar treble wail, was in response to -a soft tap at the door. It opened and a man stepped into the shadows and -made his way to the desk with cat-like stealthiness. - -"Light the gas, Potter... And by the way, Mr. Speed will be in to -dinner." He turned to the young man and said, as if the enquiry were -merely a matter of form: "You'll join us for dinner to-night, won't -you?" - -Speed replied: "I shall be delighted." - -He wondered then what it was in the dark study that made him feel eerily -sensitive and observant; so that, for instance, to watch Potter standing -on a chair and lighting the incandescent globes was to feel vividly and -uncannily the man's feline grace of movement. And what was it in the -Headmaster's quivering blade-like eyes that awakened the wonder as to -what these dark book-lined walls had seen in the past, what strange, -furtive conversations they had heard, what scenes of pity and terror and -fright and, might be, of blind suffering they had gazed upon? - -The globes popped into yellow brilliance. The dark study took sudden -shape and coherence; the shadows were no longer menacing. And the -Headmaster, the Reverend Bruce Ervine, M.A., D.D., turned out to be no -more than a plump apoplectic-looking man with a totally bald head. - -Speed's eyes, blinking their relief, wandered vacantly over the -bookshelves. He noticed Gibbon's "Decline and Fall" in twelve volumes, -the Expositor's Bible in twenty volumes, the Encyclopædia Britannica in -forty volumes, a long shelf of the Loeb classical series, and a huge -group of lexicons surmounting like guardian angels a host of small -school text-books. - -"Dinner is at seven, then Mr. Speed. We--we do not dress--except for--um -yes--for special occasions.... If you--um--have nothing to do this -afternoon--you might find a stroll into the town interesting--there are -some Roman--um--earthworks that are extremely--um yes--extremely -fascinating. Oh yes, really... Harrington's the stationers will sell you -a guide.... I don't think there are any--um--duties we need trouble you -with until to-morrow ... um yes ... Seven o'clock then, Mr. Speed..." - -"I shall be there, sir." - -He bowed slightly and backed himself through the green-baize double -doors into the stone corridor. - - - - -II - - -He climbed the stone flights of steps that led to the School House -dormitories and made his way to the little room in which, some hours -earlier, the school porter, squirming after tips, had deposited his -trunks and suit-case. Over the door, in neat white letters upon a black -background, he read: "Mr. K. Speed."--It seemed to him almost the name -of somebody else. He looked at it, earnestly and contemplatively, until -he saw that a small boy was staring at him from the dormitory doorway at -the end of the passage. That would never do; it would be fatal to appear -eccentric. He walked into the room and shut the door behind him. He was -alone now and could think. He saw the bare distempered walls with -patches of deeper colour where pictures had been hung; the table covered -with a green-baize cloth; the shabby pedestal-desk surmounted by a -dilapidated inkstand; the empty fire-grate into which somebody, as if in -derision, had cast quantities of red tissue-paper. An inner door opened -into a small bedroom, and here his critical eye roved over the plain -deal chest of drawers, the perfunctory wash-hand stand (it was expected, -no doubt, that masters would wash in the prefects' bathroom), and the -narrow iron bed with the hollow still in it that last term's occupant -had worn. He carried his luggage in through the separating door and -began to unpack. - -But he was quite happy. He had always had the ambition to be a master at -a public-school. He had dreamed about it; he was dreaming about it now. -He was bursting with new ideas and new enthusiasms, which he hoped would -be infectious, and Millstead, which was certainly a good school, would -doubtless give him his chance. Something in Ervine's dark study had -momentarily damped his enthusiasm, but only momentarily; and in any case -he was not afraid of an uncomfortable bed or of a poorly-furnished room. -When he had been at Millstead a little while he would, he decided, -import some furniture from home; it would not, however, be wise to do -everything in a hurry. For the immediate present a few photographs on -the mantelpiece, Medici prints on the walls, a few cushions, books of -course, and his innumerable undergraduate pipes and tobacco-jars, would -wreak a sufficiently pleasant transformation. - -He looked through the open lattice-windows and saw, three storeys below, -the headmaster's garden, the running-track, and beyond that the smooth -green of the cricket-pitch. Leaning out and turning his head sharply to -the left he could see the huge red blocks of Milner's and Lavery's, the -two other houses, together with the science buildings and the squat -gymnasium. He felt already intimate with them; he anticipated in a sense -the peculiar closeness of their relationship with his life. Their very -bricks and mortar might, if he let them, become part of his inmost soul. -He would walk amongst them secretly and knowingly, familiar with every -step and curve of their corridors, growing each day more intimate with -them until one day, might be, he should be a part of them as darkly and -mysteriously as Ervine had become a part of his study. Would he? He -shrank instinctively from such a final absorption of himself. And yet -already he was conscious of fascination, of something that would -permeate his life subtly and tremendously--that must do so, whether he -willed it or not. And as he leaned his head out of the window he felt -big cold drops of rain. - -He shut the windows and resumed unpacking. Just as he had finished -everything except the hanging up of some of the pictures, he heard the -School clock chime the hour of four. He recollected that the porter had -told him that tea could be obtained in the Masters' Common-Room at that -hour. It was raining heavily now, so that a walk into the town, even -with the lure of old Roman earthworks, was unattractive. Besides, he -felt just pleasantly hungry. He washed his hands and descended the four -long flights to the ground-floor corridors. - - - - -III - - -The Masters' Common-Room was empty save for a diminutive man reading the -_Farmer and Stockbreeder_. As Speed entered the little man turned round -in his chair and looked at him. Speed smiled and said, still with a -trace of that almost boisterous nervousness: "I hope I'm not intruding." - -The little man replied: "Oh, not at all. Come and sit down. Are you -having tea?" - -"Yes." - -"Then perhaps we can have it together. You're Speed, aren't you?" - -"Yes." - -"Thought so. I'm Pritchard. Science and maths." - -He said that with the air of making a vivid epigram. He had small, -rather feminine features, and a complexion dear as a woman's. Moreover -he nipped out his words, as it were, with a delicacy that was almost -wholly feminine, and that blended curiously with his far-reaching -contralto voice. - -He pressed a bell by the mantelpiece. - -"That'll fetch Potter," he said. "Potter's the Head's man, but the Head -is good enough to lend him to us for meals. I daresay we'll be alone. -The rest won't come before they have to." - -"Why do you, then?" enquired Speed, laughing a little. - -"Me?--Oh, I'm the victim of the railway time-table. If I'd caught a later -train I shouldn't have arrived here till to-morrow. I come from the Isle -of Man. Where do you come from?" - -"Little place in Essex." - -"You're all right then. Perhaps you'll be able to manage a week-end home -during the term. What's the Head put you on to?" - -"Oh, drawing and music. And he mentioned commercial geography, but I'm -not qualified for that." - -"Bless you, you don't need to be. It's only exports and imports... -Potter, tea for two, please.... And some toast... Public-school man -yourself, I suppose." - -"Yes." - -"Here?" - -"No." - -"Where, then, if you don't object to my questions?" - -"Harrow." - -Pritchard whistled. - -After Potter had reappeared with the tea, he went on: "You know, Speed, -we've had a bit of gossip here about you. Before the vac. started. -Something that the Head's wife let out one night when Ransome--he's the -classics Master--went there to dinner. She rather gave Ransome the -impression that you were a bit of a millionaire." - -Speed coloured and said hastily: "Oh, not at all. She's quite mistaken, -I assure you." - -Pritchard paused, teacup in hand. "But your father is Sir Charles Speed, -isn't he?" - -"Yes." - -The assent was grudging and a trifle irritated. Speed helped himself to -toast with an energy that gave emphasis to the monosyllable. After -munching in silence for some minutes he said: "Don't forget I'm far more -curious about Millstead than you have any right to be about me. Tell me -about the place." - -"My dear fellow, I----" his voice sank to a melodramatic whisper--"I -positively daren't tell you anything while _that_ fellow's about." (He -jerked his head in the direction of the pantry cupboard inside which -Potter could be heard sibilantly cleaning the knives.) "He's got ears -that would pierce a ten-inch wall. But if you want to make a friend of -me come up to my room to-night--I'm over the way in Milner's--and we'll -have a pipe and a chat before bedtime." - -Speed said: "Sorry. But I'm afraid I can't to-night. Thanks all the -same, though. I'm dining at the Head's." - -Pritchard's eyes rounded, and once again he emitted a soft whistle. "Oh, -you are, are you?" he said, curiously, and he seemed ever so slightly -displeased. He was silent for a short time; then, toying facetiously -with a slab of cake, he added: "Well, be sure and give Miss Ervine my -love when you get there." - -"Miss Ervine?" - -"Herself." - -Speed said after a pause: "What's she like?" Again Pritchard jerked his -head significantly towards the pantry cupboard. "Mustn't talk shop here, -old man. Besides you'll find out quite soon enough what she's like." - -He took up the _Farmer and Stockbreeder_ and said, in rather a loud -tone, as if for Potter's benefit to set a label of innocuousness upon -the whole of their conversation: "Don't know if you're at all interested -in farming, Speed?--I am. My brother's got a little farm down in -Herefordshire..." - -They chatted about farming for some time, while Potter wandered about -preparing the long tables for dinner. Speed was not especially -interested, and after a while excused himself by mentioning some letters -that he must write. He came to the conclusion that he did not want to -make a friend of Pritchard. - - - - -IV - - -At a quarter to seven he sank into the wicker armchair in his room and -gazed pensively at the red tissue-paper in the fire-grate. He had just a -few minutes with nothing particular to do in them before going -downstairs to dinner at the Head's. He was ready dressed and groomed for -the occasion, polished up to that pitch of healthy cleanliness and -sartorial efficiency which the undergraduate of not many weeks before -had been wont to present at University functions of the more fashionable -sort. He looked extraordinarily young, almost boyish, in his smartly cut -lounge suit and patent shoes; he thought so himself as he looked in the -mirror--he speculated a little humorously whether the head-prefect would -look older or younger than he did. He remembered Pritchard's -half-jocular reference to Miss Ervine; he supposed from the way -Pritchard had mentioned her that she was some awful spectacled -blue-stocking of a girl--schoolmasters' daughters were quite often like -that. On the whole he was looking forward to seven o'clock, partly -because he was eager to pick up more of the threads of Millstead life, -and partly because he enjoyed dining out. - -Out in the corridor and in the dormitories and down the stone steps -various sounds told him, even though he did not know Millstead, that the -term had at last begun. He could hear the confused murmur of boyish -voices ascending in sudden gusts from the rooms below; every now and -then footsteps raced past his room and were muffled by the webbing on -the dormitory floor; he heard shouts and cries of all kinds, from -shrillest treble to deepest bass, rising and falling ceaselessly amid -the vague jangle of miscellaneous sound. Sometimes a particular voice or -group of voices would become separate from the rest, and then he could -pick up scraps of conversation, eager salutations, boisterous chaff, -exchanged remarks about vacation experiences, all intermittent and -punctuated by the noisy unpacking of suit-cases and the clatter of -water-jugs in their basins. He was so young that he could hardly believe -that he was a Master now and not a schoolboy. - -The school-clock commenced to chime the hour. He rose, took a last view -of himself in the bedroom mirror, and went out into the corridor. A -small boy carrying a large bag collided with him outside the door and -apologised profusely. He said, with a laugh: "Oh, don't mention it." - -He knew that the boy would recount the incident to everybody in the -dormitory. In fact, as he turned the corner to descend the steps he -caught a momentary glimpse of the boy standing stock still in the -corridor gazing after him. He smiled as he went down. - - - - -V - - -He went round to the front entrance of the Headmaster's house and rang -the bell. It was a curious house, the result of repeated architectural -patchings and additions; its ultimate incongruity had been softened and -mellowed by ivy and creeper of various sorts, so that it bore the sad -air of a muffled-up invalid. Potter opened the door and admitted him -with stealthy precision. While he was standing in the hall and being -relieved of his hat and gloves he had time to notice the Asiatic and -African bric-a-brac which, scattered about the walls and tables, bore -testimony to Doctor Ervine's years as a missionary in foreign fields. -Then, with the same feline grace, Potter showed him into the -drawing-room. - -It was a moderate-sized apartment lit by heavy old-fashioned gas -chandeliers, whose peculiar and continuous hissing sound emphasised the -awkwardness of any gap in the conversation. A baby-grand piano, with its -sound-board closed and littered with music and ornaments, and various -cabinets of china and curios, were the only large articles of furniture; -chairs and settees were sprinkled haphazard over the central area round -the screened fireplace. As Speed entered, with Potter opening the door -for him and intoning sepulchrally: "Mr. Speed," an answering creak of -several of the chairs betrayed the fact that the room was occupied. - -Then the Head rose out of his armchair, book of some sort in hand, and -came forward with a large easy smile. - -"Urn, yes--Mr. Speed--so glad--um, yes--may I introduce you to my -wife?--Lydia, this is Mr. Speed!" - -At first glance Speed was struck with the magnificent appropriateness of -the name Lydia. She was a pert little woman, obviously competent; the -sort of woman who is always suspected of twisting her husband round her -little finger. She was fifty if she was a day, yet she dressed with a -dash of the young university blue-stocking; an imitation so insolent -that one assumed either that she was younger than she looked or that -some enormous brain development justified the eccentricity. She had -rather sharp blue eyes that were shrewd rather than far-seeing, and her -hair, energetically dyed, left one in doubt as to what colour nature had -ever accorded it. At present it was a dull brown that had streaks of -black and grey. - -She said, in a voice that though sharp was not unpretty: "I'm delighted -to meet you, Mr. Speed. You must make yourself at home here, you know." - -The Head murmured: "Um, yes, most certainly. At home--um, yes... Now let -me introduce you to my daughter... Helen, this is--um--Mr. Speed." - -A girl was staring at him, and he did not then notice much more than the -extreme size and brightness of her blue eyes; that, and some -astonishingly vague quality that cannot be more simply described than as -a sense of continually restrained movement, so that, looking with his -mind's eye at everybody else in the world, he saw them suddenly grown -old and decrepit. Her bright golden hair hung down her back in a -rebellious cascade; that, however, gave no clue to her age. The curious -serene look in her eyes was a woman's (her mother's, no doubt), while -the pretty half-mocking curve of her lips was still that of a young and -fantastically mischievous child. In reality she was twenty, though she -looked both older and younger. - -She said, in a voice so deep and sombre that Speed recoiled suddenly as -though faced with something uncanny: "How are you, Mr. Speed?" - -He bowed to her and said, gallantly: "Delighted to be in Millstead, Miss -Ervine." - -The Head murmured semi-consciously: "Um, yes, delightful -place--especially in summer weather--trees, you know--beautiful to sit -out on the cricket ground--um, yes, very beautiful indeed..." - -Potter opened the door to announce that dinner was served. - - - - -VI - - -As Mrs. Ervine and the girl preceded them out of the room Speed heard -the latter say: "Clare's not come yet, mother."--Mrs. Ervine replied, a -trifle acidly: "Well, my dear, we can't wait for her. I suppose she knew -it was at seven..." - -The Head, taking Speed by the arm with an air of ponderous intimacy, was -saying: "Don't know whether you've a good reading voice, Speed. If so, -we must have you for the lessons in morning chapel." - -Speed was mumbling something appropriate and the Head was piloting him -into the dining-room when Potter appeared again, accompanied by a -dark-haired girl, short in stature and rather pale-complexioned. She -seemed quite unconcerned as she caught up the tail end of the procession -into the dining-room and remarked casually: "How are you, Doctor -Ervine?--So sorry I'm a trifle late. Friday, you know,--rather a busy -day for the shop." - -The Head looked momentarily nonplussed, then smiled and said: "Oh, not -at all ... not at all... I must introduce you to our new recruit--Mr. -Speed.... This is Miss Harrington, a friend of my daughter's. She--um, -yes, she manage--most successfully, I may say--the--er--the bookshop -down in the town. Bookshop, you know." - -He said that with the air of implying: Bookshops are not ordinary shops. - -Speed bowed; the Head went on boomingly: "And she is, I think I may -venture to say, my daughter's greatest friend. Eh?" - -He addressed the monosyllable to the girl with a touch of shrewdness: -she replied quietly: "I don't know." The three words were spoken in that -rare tone in which they simply mean nothing but literally what they say. - -In the dining-room they sat in the following formation: Dr. and Mrs. -Ervine at the head and foot respectively; Helen and Clare together at -one side, and Speed opposite them at the other. The dining-room was a -cold forlorn-looking apartment in which the dim incandescent light -seemed to accomplish little more than to cast a dull glitter of -obscurity on the oil-paintings that hung, ever so slightly askew, on the -walls. A peculiar incongruity in it struck Speed at once, though the -same might never have occurred to anybody else: the minute salt and -pepper-boxes on the table possessed a pretty feminine daintiness which -harmonised ill with the huge mahogany sideboard. The latter reminded -Speed of the board-room of a City banking-house. It was as if, he -thought, the Doctor and his wife had impressed their personalities -crudely and without compromise; and as if those personalities were so -diametrically different that no fusing of the two into one was ever -possible. Throughout the meal he kept looking first to his left, at Mrs. -Ervine, and then to his right at the Doctor, and wondering at what he -felt instinctively to be a fundamental strangeness in their life -together. - -Potter, assisted by a speckle-faced maid, hovered assiduously around, -and the Doctor assisted occasionally by his wife, hovered no less -assiduously around the conversation, preventing it from lapsing into -such awkward silences as would throw into prominence the continual -hissing of the gas and his own sibilant ingurgitation of soup. The -Doctor talked rather loudly and ponderously, and with such careful and -scrupulous qualifications of everything he said that one had the -impressive sensation that incalculable and mysterious issues hung upon -his words; Mrs. Ervine's remarks were short and pithy, sometimes a -little cynical. - -The Doctor seemed to fear that he had given Speed a wrong impression of -Miss Harrington. "I'm sure Mr. Speed will be surprised when I tell him -that he can have the honour of purchasing his _Times_ from you each -morning, Clare," he said, lapping up the final spoonful of soup and -bestowing a satisfied wipe with his napkin on his broad wet lips. - -Clare said: "I should think Mr. Speed would prefer to have it -delivered." - -Mrs. Ervine said: "Perhaps Mr. Speed doesn't take the _Times_, either." - -Speed looked across to Clare with a humorous twist of the corners of the -mouth and said: "You can book me an order for the _Telegraph_ if you -like, Miss Harrington." - -"With pleasure, Mr. Speed. Any Sunday paper?" - -"The _Observer_, if you will be so kind." - -"Right." - -Again the Doctor seemed to fear that he had given Speed a wrong -impression of Miss Harrington. "I'm sure Mr. Speed will be interested to -know that your father is a great littérateur, Clare." - -Clare gave the Doctor a curious look, with one corner of her upper lip -tilted at an audacious upward angle. - -The Doctor went on, leaning his elbows on the table as soon as Potter -had removed his soup-plate: "Mr. Harrington is the author of books on -ethics." - -All this time Helen had not spoken a word. Speed had been watching her, -for she was already to him by far the most interesting member of the -party. He noticed that her eyes were constantly shifting between Clare -and anyone whom Clare was addressing; Clare seemed almost the centre of -her world. When Clare smiled she smiled also, and when Clare was pensive -there came into her eyes a look which held, besides pensiveness, a touch -of sadness. She was an extremely beautiful girl and in the yellow light -the coils of her hair shone like sheaves of golden corn on a summer's -day. It was obvious that, conversationally at any rate, she was -extremely shy. - -Mrs. Ervine was saying: "You're going to take the music, Mr. Speed, are -you not?" - -Speed smiled and nodded. - -She went on: "Then I suppose you're fond of music." - -"Doesn't it follow?" Speed answered, with a laugh. - -She replied pertly: "Not neccessarily at all, Mr. Speed. Do you play an -instrument?" - -"The piano a little." - -The Head interposed with: "Um, yes--a wonderful instrument. We must have -some music after dinner, eh, Lydia?--Do you like Mendelssohn?" (He gave -the word an exaggeratedly German pronunciation). "My daughter plays some -of the--um--the _Lieder ohne Wörte_--um, yes--the Songs Without Words, -you know." - -"I like _some_ of Mendelssohn," said Speed. - -He looked across at the girl. She was blushing furiously, with her eyes -still furtively on Clare. - - - - -VII - - -After dinner they all returned to the drawing-room, where inferior -coffee was distributed round in absurdly diminutive cups, Potter -attitudinising over it like a high-priest performing the rites of some -sinister religious ceremony. Clare and Helen sat together on one of the -settees, discoursing inaudibly and apparently in private; the Head -commenced an anecdote that was suggested by Speed's glance at a -photograph on the mantelpiece, a photograph of a coloured man attired in -loose-fitting cotton draperies. "My servant when I was in India," the -Head had informed Speed. "An excellent fellow--most--um, yes--faithful -and reliable. One of the earliest of my converts. I well remember the -first morning after I had engaged him to look after me he woke me up -with the words 'Chota Hazra, sahib'--" - -Speed feigning interest, managed to keep his eyes intermittently on the -two girls. He wondered if they were discussing him. - -"I said--'I can't--um--see Mr. Chota Hazra this time in the morning.'" - -Speed nodded with a show of intelligence, and then, to be on the safe -side if the joke had been reached, gave a slight titter. - -"Of course," said the Head, after a pause, "it was all my imperfect -knowledge of Hindostanee. 'Chota hazra' means--um, yes--breakfast!" - -Speed laughed loudly. He had the feeling after he had laughed that he -had laughed too loudly, for everything seemed so achingly silent after -the echoes had died away, silent except for the eternal hiss of the gas -in the chandeliers. It was as if his laughter had startled something; he -could hear, in his imagination, the faint fluttering of wings as if -something had flown away. A curious buzzing came into his head; he -thought perhaps it might be due to the mediocre Burgundy that he had -drunk with his dinner. Then for one strange unforgettable second he saw -Helen's sky-blue eyes focussed full upon him and it was in them that he -read a look of half-frightened wonderment that sent the blood tingling -in his veins. - -He said, with a supreme inward feeling of recklessness: "I would love to -hear Miss Ervine play Mendelssohn." - -He half expected a dreadful silence to supervene and everybody to stare -at him as the author of some frightful conversational _faux pas_; he had -the feeling of having done something deliberately and provocatively -unconventional. He saw the girl's eyes glance away from him and the -blush rekindle her cheeks in an instant. It seemed to him also that she -clung closer to Clare and that Clare smiled a little, as a mother to a -shy child. - -Of course it was all a part of his acute sensitiveness; his remark was -taken to be more than a touch of polite gallantry. Mrs. Ervine said: -"Helen's very nervous," and the Head, rolling his head from side to side -in an ecstasy of anticipation, said: "Ah yes, most certainly. Delightful -that will be--um, yes--most delightful. Helen, you must not disappoint -Mr. Speed on his first night at Millstead." - -She looked up, shook her head so that for an instant all her face seemed -to be wrapped in yellow flame, and said, sombrely: "I can't play--please -don't ask me to." - -Then she turned to Clare and said, suddenly: "I can't really, can I, -Clare?" - -"You can," said Clare, "but you get nervous." - -She said that calmly and deliberatively, with the air of issuing a final -judgment of the matter. - -"Come now, Helen," boomed the Head, ponderously. "Mr. Speed--um--is very -anxious to hear you. It is very--um, yes--silly to be nervous. Come -along now." - -There was a note in those last three words of sudden harshness, a faint -note, it is true, but one that Speed, acutely perceptive of such -subtleties, was quick to hear and notice. He looked at the Head and once -again, it seemed to him, the Head was as he had seen him that afternoon -in the dark study, a flash of malevolent sharpness in his eyes, a -menacing slope in his huge low-hanging nose. The room seemed to grow -darker and the atmosphere more tense; he saw the girl leave the settee -and walk to the piano. She sat on the stool for a moment with her hands -poised hesitatingly over the keyboard; then, suddenly, and at a furious -rate, she plunged into the opening bars of the Spring Song. Speed had -never heard it played at such an alarming rate. Five or six bars from -the beginning she stopped all at once, lingered a moment with her hands -over the keys, and then left the stool and almost ran the intervening -yards to the settee. She said, with deep passion: "I can't--I don't -remember it." - -Clare said protectingly: "Never mind, Helen. It doesn't matter." - -Speed said: "No, of course not. It's awfully hard to remember music--at -least, I always find it so." - -And the Head, all his harshness gone and placidity restored in its -place, murmured. "Hard--um yes--very hard. I don't know how people -manage it at all. Oh, _very_ difficult, don't you think so, Lydia?" - -"Difficult if you're nervous," replied Mrs. Ervine, with her own -peculiar note of acidity. - - - - -VIII - - -Conversation ambled on, drearily and with infinite labour, until -half-past nine, when Clare arose and said she must go. Helen then rose -also and said she would go with Clare a part of the way into the town, -but Mrs. Ervine objected because Helen had a cold. Clare said: "Oh, -don't trouble, Helen, I can easily go alone--I'm used to it, you know, -and there's a bright moon." - -Speed, feeling that a show of gallantry would bring to an end an evening -that had just begun to get on his nerves a little, said: "Suppose I see -you home, Miss Harrington. I've got to go down to the general -post-office to post a letter, and I can quite easily accompany you as -far as the High Street." - -"There's no need to," said Clare. "And I hope you're not inventing that -letter you have to post." - -"I assure you I'm not," Speed answered, and he pulled out of his pocket -a letter home that he had written up in his room that afternoon. - -Clare laughed. - -In the dimly-lit hall, after he had bidden good night to Doctor and Mrs. -Ervine, he found an opportunity of speaking a few words to Helen alone. -She was waiting at the door to have a few final words with Clare, and -before Clare appeared Speed came up to her and began speaking. - -He said: "Miss Ervine, please forgive me for having been the means of -making you feel uncomfortable this evening. I had no idea you were -nervous, or I shouldn't have dreamed of asking you to play. I know what -nervousness is, because I'm nervous myself." - -She gave him a half-frightened look and replied: "Oh, it's all right, -Mr. Speed. It wasn't your fault. And anyhow it didn't matter." - -She seemed only half interested. It was Clare she was waiting for, and -when Clare appeared she left Speed by the door and the two girls -conversed a moment in whispers. They kissed and said good night. - -As Potter appeared mysteriously from nowhere and, after handing Speed -his hat and gloves, opened the front-door with massive dignity, Helen -threw her hands up as if to embrace the chill night air and exclaimed: -"Oh, what a lovely moon! I wish I was coming with you, Clare!" - -There was a strange bewildering pathos in her voice. - -Over the heavy trees and the long black pillars of shadow the windows of -the dormitories shone like yellow gems, piercing the night with radiance -and making a pattern of intricate beauty on the path that led to the -Headmaster's gate. Sounds, mysteriously clear, fell from everywhere upon -the two of them as they crossed the soft lawn and came in view of the -huge block of Milner's, all its windows lit and all its rooms alive with -commotion. They could hear the clatter of jugs in their basins, the -sudden chorus of boyish derision, the strident cry that pierced the -night like a rocket, the dull incessant murmur of miscellaneous sounds, -the clap of hands, the faint jabber of a muffled gramophone. Millstead -was most impressive at this hour, for it was the hour when she seemed -most of all immense and vital, a body palpitating with warmth and -energy, a mighty organism which would swallow the small and would sway -even the greatest of men. Tears, bred of a curious undercurrent of -emotion, came into Speed's eyes as he realised that he was now part of -the marvellously contrived machine. - -Out in the lane the moon was white along one side of the road-way, and -here the lights of Millstead pierced through the foliage like so many -bright stars. Speed walked with Clare in silence for some way. He had -nothing particular to say; he had suggested accompanying her home partly -from mere perfunctory politeness, but chiefly because he longed for a -walk in the cool night air away from the stuffiness of the Head's -drawing-room. - -When they had been walking some moments Clare said: "I wish you hadn't -come with me, Mr. Speed." - -He answered, a trifle vacantly: "Why do you?" - -"Because it will make Helen jealous." - -He became as if suddenly galvanised into attention. "What! Jealous! -Jealous!--Of whom?--Of what?--Of you having me to take you home?" - -Clare shook her head. "Oh, no. Of you having me to take home." - -He thought a moment and then said: "What, really?--Do you mean to tell -me that----" - -"Yes," she interrupted. "And of course you don't understand it, do -you?--Men never understand Helen." - -"And why don't they?" - -"Because Helen doesn't like men, and men can never understand that." - -He rejoined, heavily despondent: "Then I expect she dislikes me -venomously enough. For it was I who asked her to play the piano, wasn't -it?" - -"She wouldn't dislike you any more for that," replied Clare. "But let's -not discuss her. I hate gossiping about my friends." - -They chattered intermittently and inconsequently about books after that, -and at the corner of High Street she insisted on his leaving her and -proceeding to the general post-office by the shortest route. - - - - -CHAPTER TWO - - -I - - -In the morning he was awakened by Hartopp the School House porter -ringing his noisy hand-bell through the dormitories. He looked at his -watch; it was half-past six. There was no need for him to think of -getting up yet; he had no early morning form, and so could laze for -another hour if he so desired. But it was quite impossible to go to -sleep again because his mind, once he became awake, began turning over -the incidents of the day before and anticipating those of the day to -come. He lay in bed thinking and excogitating, listening to the slow -beginnings of commotion in the dormitories, and watching bars of yellow -sunshine creeping up the bed towards his face. At half-past seven -Hartopp tapped at the door and brought in his correspondence. There was -a letter from home and a note, signed by the Head, giving him his work -time-table. He consulted it immediately and discovered that he was put -down for two forms that morning; four _alpha_ in drawing and five -_gamma_ in general supervision. - -His letter from home, headed "Beachings Over, near Framlingay, Essex. -Tel. Framlingay 32. Stations: Framlingay 2½ miles; Pumphrey Bassett 3 -miles," ran as follows: - - -"MY DEAR KEN,--This will reach you on the first morning of term, won't -it, and your father and I both want you to understand that we wish you -every success. It seems a funny thing to do, teaching in a -boarding-school, but I suppose it's all right if you like it, only of -course we should have liked you to go into the business. I hope you can -keep order with the boys, anyhow, they do say that poor Mr. Rideaway in -the village has an awful time, the boys pour ink in his pockets when he -isn't looking. Father is going on business to Australia very soon and -wants me to go with him, perhaps I may, but it sounds an outlandish sort -of place to go to, doesn't it. Since you left us we've had to get rid of -Jukes--we found him stealing a piece of tarpaulin--so ungrateful, isn't -it, but we've got another under-gardener now, he used to be at Peverly -Court but left because the old duke was so mean. Dick goes back to -Marlborough to-day--they begin the same day as yours. By the way, why -did you choose Millstead? I'd never heard of it till we looked it up, it -isn't well-known like Harrow and Rugby, is it. We had old Bennett and -Sir Guy Blatherwick with us the last week-end, Sir Guy told us all about -his travels in China, or Japan, I forget which. Well, write to us, won't -you, and drop in if you get a day off any time--your affectionate -mother, FANNY." - - -After he had read it he washed and dressed in a leisurely fashion and -descended in time for School breakfast at eight. Hartopp showed him his -place, at the head of number four table, and he was interested to see by -his plate a neatly folded _Daily Telegraph_. Businesslike, he commented -mentally, and he was glad to see it because a newspaper is an excellent -cloak for nervousness and embarrassment. His mother's hint about his -being possibly a bad disciplinarian put him on his guard; he was -determined to succeed in this immensely important respect right from the -start. Of course he possessed the enormous advantage of knowing from -recent experience the habits and psychology of the average -public-schoolboy. - -But breakfast was not a very terrible ordeal. The boys nearest him -introduced themselves and bade him a cheerful good morning, for there is -a sense of fairness in schoolboys which makes them generous to -newcomers, except where tradition decrees the setting-up of some -definite ordeal. Towards the end of the meal Pritchard walked over from -one of the other tables and enquired, in a voice loud enough for at any -rate two or three of the boys to hear: "Well, Speed, old man, did you -have a merry carousal at the Head's last night?" - -Speed replied, a little coldly: "I had a pleasant time." - -"I suppose now," went on Pritchard, dropping his voice a little, but -still not sufficiently to prevent the nearest boys from hearing, "you -realise what I meant yesterday." - -"What was that?" - -"When I said that you'd find out soon enough what she was like." - -Speed said crisply: "You warned me yesterday against talking shop. I -might warn you now." - -"But that isn't shop." - -"Well, whether it is or not I don't propose to discuss it--_now_--and -_here_." - -Almost without his being aware of it his voice had risen somewhat, so -that at this final pronouncement the boys nearest him looked up with -curiosity tinged with poorly-concealed amusement. It was rather obvious -that Pritchard was unpopular. - -Speed was sorry that he had not exercised greater control over his -voice, especially when Pritchard, reddening, merely shrugged his -shoulders and went away. - -The boy nearest to Speed grinned and said audaciously: "That'll take Mr. -Pritchard down a peg, sir!" - -Speed barked out (to the boy's bewilderment): "Don't be impertinent!" - -For the rest of the meal he held up the _Telegraph_ as a rampart between -himself and the world. - - - - -II - - -He knew, at the end of the first school day, that he had been a success, -and that if he took reasonable care he would be able to go on being a -success. It had been a day of subtle trials and ordeals, yet he had, -helped rather than hindered by his peculiar type of nervousness, got -safely through them all. - -Numerous were the pitfalls which he had carefully avoided. At school -meals he had courteously declined to share jam and delicacies which the -nearest to him offered. If he had he would have been inundated -immediately with pots of jam and boxes of fancy cakes from all quarters -of the table. Many a new Master at Millstead had finished his first meal -with his part of the table looking like the counter of an untidy -grocer's shop. Instinct rather than prevision had saved Speed from such -a fate. Instinct, in fact, had been his guardian angel throughout the -day; instinct which, although to some extent born of his recent -public-school experience, was perhaps equally due to that curious -barometric sensitiveness that made his feelings so much more acute and -clairvoyant than those of other people. - -At dinner in the Masters' Common-Room he had met the majority of the -staff. There was Garforth, the bursar, a pleasant little man with a -loving-kindness overclouded somewhat by pedantry; Hayes-Smith, -housemaster of Milner's, a brisk, bustling, unimaginative fellow whose -laugh was more eloquent than his words; Ransome, a wizened Voltairish -classical master, morbidly ashamed of being caught in possession of any -emotion of any kind; Lavery, housemaster of North House (commonly called -Lavery's), whose extraordinary talent for delegating authority enabled -him to combine laziness and efficiency in a way both marvellous and -enviable; and Poulet, the French and German Master, who spoke far better -English than anybody in the Common-Room, except, perhaps, Garforth or -Ransome. Then, of course, there was Clanwell, whom Speed had already -met; Clanwell, better known "Fish-cake," a sporting man of great vigour -who would, from time to time, astonish the world by donning a black suit -and preaching from the Millstead pulpit a sermon of babbling meekness. -Speed liked him; liked all of them, in fact, better than he did -Pritchard. - -At dinner, Pritchard sat next to him on one side and Clanwell on the -other. Pritchard showed no malice for the incident of that morning's -breakfast-time, and Speed, a little contrite, was affable enough. But -for all that he did not like Pritchard. - -Pritchard asked him if he had got on all right that day, and Speed -replied that he had. Then Pritchard said: "Oh, well of course, the first -day's always easy. It's after a week or so that you'll find things a bit -trying. The first night you take prep, for instance. It's a sort of -school tradition that they always try and rag you that night." - -Clanwell, overhearing, remarked fiercely: "Anyway, Speed, take my tip -and don't imagine it's a school tradition that any Master lets himself -be ragged." - -Speed laughed. "I'll remember that," he said. - -He remembered it on the following Wednesday night when he was down to -take evening preparation from seven until half-past eight. Preparation -for the whole school, except prefects, was held in Millstead Big Hall, a -huge vault-like chamber in which desks were ranged in long rows and -where the Master in charge sat on high at a desk on a raised dais. No -more subtle and searching test of disciplinary powers could have been -contrived than this supervision of evening preparation, for the room was -so big that it was impossible to see clearly from the Master's desk to -the far end, and besides that, the acoustics were so peculiar that -conversations in some parts of the room were practically inaudible -except from very close quarters. A new master suffered additional -handicap in being ignorant of the names of the vast majority of the -boys. - -At dinner, before the ordeal, the Masters in the Common-Room had given -Speed jocular advice. "Whatever you do, watch that they don't get near -the electric-light switches," said Clanwell. Pritchard said: "When old -Blenkinsop took his first prep they switched off the lights and then -took his trousers off and poured ink over his legs." Garforth said: -"Whatever you do, don't lose your temper and hit anybody. It doesn't -pay." "Best to walk up and down the rows if you want them to stop -talking," said Ransome. Pritchard said: "If you do that they'll beat -time to your steps with their feet." Poulet remarked reminiscently: -"When I took my first prep they started a gramophone somewhere, and I -guessed they'd hidden it well, so I said: 'Gentlemen, anyone who -interrupts the music will have a hundred lines!' They laughed and were -quite peaceable afterwards." - -Speed said, at the conclusion of the meal: "I'm much obliged to -everybody for the advice. I'll try to remember all of it, but I guess -when I'm in there I shall just do whatever occurs to me at the moment." -To which Clanwell replied, putting a hand on Speed's shoulder: "You -couldn't do better, my lad." - -Speed was very nervous as he took his seat on the dais at five to seven -and watched the school straggling to their places. They came in quietly -enough, but there was an atmosphere of subdued expectancy of which Speed -was keenly conscious; the boys stared about them, grinned at each other, -seemed as if they were waiting for something to happen. Nevertheless, at -five past seven all was perfectly quiet and orderly, although it was -obvious that little work was being done. Speed felt rather as if he were -sitting on a powder-magazine, and there was a sense in which he was -eager for the storm to break. - -At about a quarter-past seven a banging of desk-lids began at the far end -of the hall. - -He stood up and said, quietly, but in a voice that carried well: "I -don't want to be hard on anybody, so I'd better warn you that I shall -punish any disorderliness very severely." - -There was some tittering, and for a moment or so he wondered if he had -made a fool of himself. - -Then he saw a bright, rather pleasant-faced boy in one of the back rows -deliberately raise a desk-lid and drop it with a bang. Speed consulted -the map of the desks that was in front of him and by counting down the -rows discovered the boy's name to be Worsley. He wondered how the name -should be pronounced--whether the first syllable should rhyme with -"purse" or with "horse." Instinct in him, that uncanny feeling for -atmosphere, embarked him on an outrageously bold adventure, nothing less -than a piece of facetiousness, the most dangerous weapon in a new -Master's armoury, and the one most of all likely to recoil on himself. -He stood up again and said: "Wawsley or Wurssley--however you call -yourself--you have a hundred lines!" - -The whole assembly roared with laughter. That frightened him a little. -Supposing they did not stop laughing! He remembered an occasion at his -own school when a class had ragged a certain Master very neatly and -subtly by pretending to go off into hysterics of laughter at some -trifling witticism of his. - -When the laughter subsided, a lean, rather clever-looking boy rose up in -the front row but one and said, impudently: "Please sir, I'm Worsley. I -didn't do anything." - -Speed replied promptly: "Oh, didn't you? Well, you've got a hundred -lines, anyway." - -"What for, sir"--in hot indignation. - -"For sitting in your wrong desk." - -Again the assembly laughed, but there was no mistaking the -respectfulness that underlay the merriment. And, as a matter of fact, -the rest of the evening passed entirely without incident. After the -others had gone, and when the school-bell had rung for evening chapel, -Worsley came up to the dais accompanied by the pleasant-faced boy who -dropped the desk-lid. Worsley pleaded for the remission of his hundred -lines, and the other boy supported him, urging that it was he and not -Worsley who had dropped the lid. - -"And what is your name?" asked Speed. - -"Naylor, sir." - -"Very well, Naylor, you and Worsley can share the hundred lines between -you." He added smiling: "I've no doubt you're neither of you worse than -anybody else but you must pay the penalty of being pioneers." - -They went away laughing. - -That night Speed went into Clanwell's room for a chat before bedtime, -and Clanwell congratulated him fulsomely on his successful passage of -the ordeal. "As a matter of fact," Clanwell said, "I happen to know that -they'd prepared a star benefit performance for you but that you put them -off, somehow, from the beginning. The prefects get to hear of these -things and they tell me. Of course, I don't take any official notice of -them. It doesn't matter to me what plans people make--it's when any are -put into execution that I wake up. Anyhow, you may be interested to know -that the member's of School House subscribed over fifteen shillings to -purchase fireworks which they were going to let off after the switches -had been turned off! Alas for fond hopes ruined!" - -Clanwell and Speed leaned back in their armchairs and roared with -laughter. - - - - -III - - -At the end of the first week of life at Millstead, Speed was perfectly -happy. He seemed to have surmounted easily all the difficulties that had -confronted or that could confront him, and now there stretched away into -the future an endless succession of glorious days spent tirelessly in -the work that he loved. For he loved teaching. He loved boys. When he -got over his preliminary, and in some ways rather helpful nervousness he -was thoroughly at home with all of them. He invited those in his house -to tea, two or three at a time, almost every afternoon. He took a deep -and individual interest in all who showed distinct artistic or musical -abilities. He plunged adventurously into the revolutionising of the -School's arts curriculum; he dreamed of organising an exhibition of art -work in time for Speech Day, of reviving the moribund School musical -society, of getting up concerts of chamber music, of entering the School -choir for musical festivals. All the hot enthusiasm of youth he poured -ungrudgingly into the service of Millstead, and Millstead rewarded him -by liking him tremendously. The boys liked him because he was young and -agreeable, yet not condescendingly so; besides, he could play a game of -cricket that was so good-naturedly mediocre that nobody, after -witnessing it, could doubt that he was a fellow of like capabilities -with the rest. The Masters liked him because he was energetic and -efficient and did not ally himself with any particular set or clique -among them. - -Clanwell said to him one evening: "I hope you won't leave at the end of -the term, Speed." - -Speed said: "Why on earth should I?" - -"We sometimes find that people who're either very good or very bad do -so. And you're very good." - -"I'm so glad you think so." His face grew suddenly boyish with blushes. - -"We all think so, Speed. And the Head likes you. We hope you'll stay." - -"I'll stay all right. I'm too happy to want to go away." - -Clanwell said meditatively: "It's a fine life if you're cut out for it, -isn't it? I sometimes think there isn't a finer life in the whole -world." - -"I've always thought that." - -"I hope you always will think it." - -"And I hope so too." - -Summer weather came like a strong flood about ten days after the opening -of term, and then Millstead showed herself to him in all her serene and -matchless beauty. He learned to know and expect the warm sunshine waking -him in the mornings and creeping up the bed till it dazzled his eyes; he -learned to know and to love the _plick-plock_ of the cricket that was -his music as he sat by the open window many an afternoon at work. And at -night time, when the flaring gas jets winked in all the tiny windows and -when there came upwards the cheerful smell of coffee-making in the -studies, it was all as if some subtle alchemy were at work, transforming -his soul into the mould and form of Millstead. Something fine and mighty -was in the place, and his soul, passionately eager to yield itself, -craved for that full possession which Millstead brought to it. The spell -was swift and glorious. Sometimes he thought of Millstead almost as a -lover; he would stroll round at night and drink deep of the witchery -that love put into all that he saw and heard; the sounds of feet -scampering along the passage outside his door, the cold lawns with the -moon white upon them, the soft delicious flower-scents that rose up to -his bedroom window at night. The chapel seemed to him, to put it -epigrammatically, far more important because it belonged to Millstead -than because it belonged to Christ. Millstead, stiff-collared and -black-coated on a Sunday morning, and wondering what on earth it should -do with itself on Sunday afternoon, touched him far more deeply than did -the chatter of some smooth-voiced imported divine who knew Millstead -only from spending a bored week-end at the Head's house. To Speed, -sitting in the Masters' pew, and giving vent to his ever-ready -imagination, Millstead seemed a personification of all that was youthful -and clear-spirited and unwilling to pay any more than merely respectful -attention to the exhortations of elders. - -He did not sentimentalise over it. He was not old enough to think -regretfully of his own school-days. It was the present, the present -leaning longingly in the arms of the future, that wove its subtle and -gracious spell. He did not kindle to the trite rhapsodies of middle-aged -"old boys." The "Thoughts of an Old Millsteadian on Revisiting the -School Chapel," published in the school magazine, stirred him not at -all. But to wander about on a dark night and to find his feet -beautifully at ease upon curious steps and corridors gave him pangs of -exquisite lover-like intimacy; he was a "new boy," eager for the future, -not an "old boy" sighing for the past. - -And all this was accomplished so swiftly and effortlessly, within a few -weeks of his beginning at the school it was as if Millstead had filled a -void in his soul that had been gaping for it. - -Only one spot in the whole place gave him a feeling of discomfort, and -that was the Headmaster's study. The feeling of apprehension, of -sinister attraction, that had come upon him when first he had entered -it, lessened as time and custom wore it away; yet still, secretly and in -shadow, it was there. All the sadness and pathos of a world seemed to be -congregated in the dark study, and to come out of it into the sunlit -corridors of the school was like the swift passing from the minor into -the major key. - - - - -IV - - -On Fridays he had an early morning form before breakfast and then was -completely free until four o'clock in the afternoon, so that if the -weather were sufficiently enticing he could fill the basket on his -bicycle with books and go cycling along the sweet-smelling sunlit lanes. -Millstead was just on the edge of the fen district; in one direction the -flat lands stretched illimitably to a horizon unbroken as the sea's -edge; a stern and lonely country, with nothing to catch the eye save -here and there the glint of dyke-water amongst tall reeds and afar off -some desert church-tower stiff and stark as the mast of a ship on an -empty sea. Speed did not agree with the general Common-Room consensus of -opinion that the scenery round Millstead was tame and unattractive; -secretly to him the whole district was rich with wild and passionate -beauty, and sometimes on these delectable Fridays he would cycle for -miles along the flat fen roads with the wind behind him, and return in -the afternoon by crawling romantic-looking branch-line trains which -always managed to remind him of wild animals, so completely had the -civilised thing been submerged in the atmosphere of what it had sought -to civilise. - -But that was only on one side of Millstead. On the other side, and -beyond the rook-infested trees that were as ramparts to the south-west -wind, the lanes curved into the folds of tiny hills and lifted -themselves for a space on to the ridge of glossy heaths and took sudden -twists into the secrecies of red-roofed tree-hidden hamlets. And amidst -this country, winding its delicate way beneath arches of overhanging -greenery, ran the river Wade. - -One Friday morning Speed cycled out to Parminters, a village about three -miles out of Millstead. Here there was a low hill (not more than a -couple of hundred feet), carpeted with springy turf and overlooking -innumerable coils of the glistening stream. At midday on a May morning -there was something indescribably restful, drowsy almost, in the scene; -the hill dropped by a sudden series of grassy terraces into the meadows, -and there was quite a quarter of a mile of lush grass land between the -foot of the slope and the river bank. It was an entrancing spectacle, -one to watch rather than to see; the silken droop of the meadows, the -waves of alternate shadow and sunlight passing over the long grasses, -the dark patches on the landscape which drifted eastwards with the -clouds. The sun, when it pierced their white edges and came sailing into -the blue, was full of warmth and beauty, warmth that awakened myriads of -insects to a drowsy buzzing contentment and beauty that lay like a soft -veil spread across the world. Speed, with a bundle of four _alpha_ -geography essays in his pocket (he had, after all, decided that he was -competent to teach commercial geography to the lower forms), lay down -amongst the deep grass and lit a pipe. - -He marked a few of the essays and then, smoking comfortably, settled to -a contented gaze across the valley. It was then, not until he had been -there some while, though, that he saw amidst the tall grasses of the -meadows a splash of blue in the midst of the deep green. It is strange -that at first he did not recognise her. He saw only a girl in a pale -blue dress stooping to pick grasses. She was hatless and golden-haired, -and in one hand she bore a bunch of something purple, some kind of long -grass whose name he did not know. He watched her at first exactly as he -might have watched some perfect theatrical spectacle, with just that -kind of detached admiration and rich impersonal enchantment. The pose of -her as she stooped, the flaunt of the grasses in her hand, the movement -of her head as she tossed back her laughing hair, the winding yellow -path she trampled across the meadows: all these things he watched and -strangely admired. - -He lay watching for a long while, still without guessing who she was, -till the sun went in behind a cloud and he felt drowsy. He closed his -eyes and leaned back cushioned amongst the turf. - - - - -V - - -He woke with a sensation of intense chilliness; the sun had gone in and -even its approximate position in the sky could not be determined because -of the heaviness of the clouds. He looked at his watch; it was ten -minutes past one; he must have slept for over an hour. - -The sky was almost the most sinister thing he ever saw. In the east a -faint deathly pallor hung over the horizon, but the piling clouds from -the west were pushing it over the edge of the world. That faint pallor -dissolved across the sky into the greyness deepening into a western -horizon of pitch black. Here and there this was shot through with -streaks of dull and sombre flame as if each of the hills in that dark -land was a sulky volcano. It was cold, and yet the wind that blew in -from the gloom was strangely oppressive; the grasses bent low as if -weighed down by its passing. Deep in the cleft by Parminters the river -gleamed like a writhing venomous snake, the sky giving it the dull -shimmer of pewter. To descend across those dark meadows to the coils of -the stream seemed somehow an adventure of curious and inscrutable -horror. Speed stood up and looked far into the valley. The whole scene -seemed to him unnatural; the darkness was weird and baffling; the clouds -were the grim harbingers of a thunderstorm. And to him there seemed -momentarily a strangeness in the aspect of everything; something deep -and fearsome, imminent, perhaps, with tragedy. He felt within him a -sombre presaging excitement. - -It began to rain, quietly at first, then faster, faster and at last -overwhelmingly. He had brought no mackintosh. He stuffed the essays into -his coat pocket, swung his bicycle off the turf where he had laid it, -and began to run down the hill with it. His aim was to get to the -village and shelter somewhere till the storm was over. Halfway down he -paused to put up his coat-collar, and there, looking across the meadows, -he saw again that girl in the pale-blue dress. He was nearer to her now -and recognised her immediately. She was dressed in a loose-fitting and -rather dilapidated frock which the downpour of rain had already made to -cling to the soft curves of her body; round her throat, tightly twined, -was a striped scarf which Speed, quick to like or to dislike what he -saw, decided was absolutely and garishly ugly. And yet immediately he -felt a swift tightening of his affection for her, for Millstead was like -that, full of stark uglinesses that were beautiful by their intimacy.... -She saw him and stopped. Details of her at that moment encumbered his -memory ever afterwards. She was about twenty yards from him and he could -see a most tremendous wrist-watch that she wore--an ordinary pocket -watch clamped on to a strap. And from the outside pocket of her dress -there protruded the chromatic cover of a threepenny novelette. (Had she -read it? Was she going to read it? Did she like it? he wondered -swiftly.) She still carried that bunch of grasses, now rather soiled and -bedraggled, tightly in her hand. He imagined, in the curiously vivid way -that was so easy to him, the damp feel of her palm; the heat and -perspiration of it: somehow this again, a symbol of secret and bodily -intimacy, renewed in him that sudden kindling affection for her. - -He called out to her: "Miss Ervine!" - -She answered, a little shyly: "Oh, how are you, Mr. Speed?" - -"Rather wet just at present," he replied, striding over the tufts of -thick grass towards her. "And you appear to be even wetter than I am. -I'm afraid we're in for a severe thunderstorm." - -"Oh well, I don't mind thunderstorms." - -"You ought to mind getting wet." He paused, uncertain what to say next. -Then instinct made him suddenly begin to talk to her as he might have -done to a small child. "My dear young lady, you don't suppose I'm going -to leave you here to get drenched to the skin, do you?" - -She shrugged her shoulders and said: "I don't know what you're going to -do." - -"Have you had anything to eat?" - -"I don't want anything." - -"Well, I suggest that we get into the village as quick as we can and -stay there till the rain stops. I was also going to suggest that we -spent the time in having lunch, but as you don't want anything, we -needn't." - -"But I don't want to wait in the village, Mr. Speed. I was just going to -start for home when it came on to rain." - -Speed said: "Very well, if you want to get home you must let me take -you. You're not going to walk home through a thunderstorm. We'll have a -cab or something." - -"And do you really think you'll get a cab in Parminters?" - -He answered: "I always have a good try to get anything I want to." - -For all her protests she came with him down the meadow and out into the -sodden lane. As they passed the gate the first flash of lightning lit up -the sky, followed five seconds after by a crash of thunder. - -"There!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as if the thunder and lightning -somehow strengthened his position with her: "You wouldn't like to walk -to Millstead through that, would you?" - -She shrugged her shoulders and looked at him as if she hated his -interference yet found it irresistible. - - - - -VI - - -It was altogether by good luck that he did get a cab in the village; a -Millstead cab had brought some people into Parminters and was just -setting back empty on the return journey when Speed met it in the narrow -lane. Once again, this time as he opened the cab-door and handed her -inside, he gave her that look of triumph, though he was well aware of -the luck that he had had. Inside on the black leather cushions he placed -in a conspicuously central position his hat and his bundle of essays, -and, himself occupying one corner, invited her to take the other. All -the time the driver was bustling round lifting the bicycle on to the -roof and tying it securely down, Speed sat in his corner, damp to the -skin, watching her and remembering that Miss Harrington had told him -that she hated men. All the way during that three-mile ride back to -Millstead, with the swishing of the rain and the occasional thunder and -the steady jog-trot of the horse's hoofs mingling together in a -memorable medley of sound, Speed sat snugly in his corner, watching and -wondering. - -Not much conversation passed between them. When they were nearing -Millstead, Speed said: "The other day as I passed near your drawing-room -window I heard somebody playing the Chopin waltzes. Was it you?" - -"It might have been." - -He continued after a pause: "I see there's a Chopin recital advertised -in the town for next Monday week. Zobieski, the Polish pianist, is -coming up. Would you care to come with me to it?" - -It was very daring of him to say that, and he knew it. She coloured to -the roots of her wet-gold hair, and replied, after a silence: "Monday, -though, isn't it?--I'm afraid I couldn't manage it. I always see Clare -on Mondays." - -He answered instantly: "Bring Clare as well then." - -"I--I don't think Clare would be interested," she replied, a little -confused. She added, as if trying to make up for having rejected his -offer rather rudely: "Clare and I don't get many chances of seeing each -other. Only Mondays and Wednesday afternoons." - -"But I see you with her almost every day." - -"Yes, but only for a few minutes. Mondays are the only evenings that we -have wholly to ourselves." - -He thought, but did not dare to say: And is it absolutely necessary that -you must have those evenings wholly to yourselves? - -He said thoughtfully: "I see." - -He said nothing further until the cab drew up outside the main gate of -Millstead School. He was going to tell the driver to proceed inside as -far as the porch of the Head's house, but she said she would prefer to -get out there and walk across the lawns. He smiled and helped her out. -As he looked inside the cab again to see if he had left any papers -behind he saw that the gaudily-coloured novelette had fallen out of her -pocket and on to the floor. He picked it up and handed it to her. "You -dropped this," he said merely. She stared at him for several seconds and -then took it almost sulkily. - -"I suppose I can read what I like, anyway," she exclaimed, in a sudden -hot torrent of indignation. - -He smiled, completely astonished, yet managed to say, blandly: "I'm sure -I never dreamt of suggesting otherwise." - -He could see then from her eyes, half-filling with tears of humiliation, -that she realised that she had needlessly made a fool of herself. - -"Please--please--don't come with me any further," she said, awkwardly. -"And thanks--thanks--very much--for--for bringing me back." - -He smiled again and raised his hat as she darted away across the wet -lawns. Then, after paying the driver, he walked straightway into the -school and down into the prefects' bathroom, where he turned on the -scalding hot water with jubilant anticipation. - - - - -VII - - -The immediate result of the incident was an invitation to dine at the -Head's a few days later. "It was very--um, yes--thoughtful and -considerate of you, Mr. Speed," said the Head, mumblingly. "My -daughter--a heedless child--just like her to omit the--um--precaution of -taking some--um, yes--protection against any possible change in the -weather." - -"I was rather in the same boat myself, sir," said Speed, laughing. "The -thunderstorm was quite unexpected." - -"Um yes, quite so. _Quite_ so." The Head paused and added, with apparent -inconsequence: "My daughter is quite a child, Mr. Speed--loves to gather -flowers--um--botany, you know, and--um--so forth." - -Speed said: "Yes, I have noticed it." - -Dinner at the Head's house was less formal than on the previous -occasion. It was a Monday evening and Clare Harrington was there. -Afterwards in the drawing-room Speed played a few Chopin studies and -Mazurkas. He did not attempt to get into separate conversation with Miss -Ervine; he chatted amiably with the Head while the two girls gossiped by -themselves. And at ten o'clock, pleading work to do before bed, he arose -to go, leaving the girls to make their own arrangements. Miss Ervine -said good-bye to him with a shyness in which he thought he detected a -touch of wistfulness. - -When he got up to his own room he thought about her for a long while. He -tried to settle down to an hour or so of marking books, but found it -impossible. In the end he went downstairs and let himself outside into -the school grounds by his own private key. It was a glorious night of -starshine, and all the roofs were pale with the brightness of it. Wafts -of perfume from the flowers and shrubbery of the Head's garden accosted -him gently as he turned the corner by the chapel and into the winding -tree-hidden path that circumvented the entire grounds of Millstead. It -was on such a night that his heart's core was always touched; for it -seemed to him that then the strange spirit of the place was most alive, -and that it came everywhere to meet him with open arms, drenching all -his life in wild and unspeakable loveliness. Oh, how happy he was, and -how hard it was to make others realise his happiness! In the Common-Room -his happiness had become proverbial, and even amongst the boys, always -quicker to notice unhappy than happy looks, his beaming smile and firm, -kindling enthusiasm had earned him the nickname of "Smiler." - -He sat down for a moment on the lowest tier of the pavilion seats, those -seats where generations of Millsteadians had hurriedly prepared -themselves for the fray of school and house matches. Now the spot was -splendidly silent, with the cricket-pitch looming away mistily in front, -and far behind, over the tips of the high trees, the winking lights of -the still noisy dormitories. He watched a bat flitting haphazardly about -the pillars of the pavilion stand. He could see, very faintly in the -paleness, the score of that afternoon's match displayed on the -indicator. Old Millstead parish bells, far away in the town, commenced -the chiming of eleven. - -He felt then, as he had never felt before he came to Millstead, that the -world was full, brimming full, of wonderful majestic beauty, and that -now, as the scented air swirled round him in slow magnificent eddies, it -was searching for something, searching with passionate and infinite -desire for something that eluded it always. He could not understand or -analyse all that he felt, but sometimes lately a deep shaft of ultimate -feeling would seem to grip him round the body and send the tears -swimming into his eyes, as if for one glorious moment he had seen and -heard something of another world. It came suddenly to him now, as he sat -on the pavilion seats with the silver starshine above him and the air -full of the smells of earth and flowers; it seemed to him that something -mighty must be abroad in the world, that all this tremulous loveliness -could not live without a meaning, that he was on the verge of some -strange and magic revelation. - -Clear as bells on the silent air came the sound of girls' voices. He -heard a rich, tolling "Good night, Clare!" Then silence again, silence -in which he seemed to know more things than he had ever known before. - - - - -CHAPTER THREE - - -I - - -One afternoon he called at Harrington's, in the High Street, to buy a -book. It was a tiny low-roofed shop, the only one of its kind in -Millstead, and with the sale of books it combined that of newspapers, -stationery, pictures and fancy goods. It was always dark and shadowy, -yet, unlike the Head's study at the school, this gloom possessed a -cheerful soothing quality that made the shop a pleasant haven of refuge -when the pavements outside were dazzling and sun-scorched. It was on such -an afternoon that Speed visited the shop for the first time. Usually he -had no occasion to, for, though he dealt with Harrington's, an -errand-boy visited the school every morning to take orders and saved him -the trouble of a walk into the village. This afternoon, however, he -recollected a text-book that he wanted and had forgotten to order; -besides, the heat of the mid-afternoon tempted him to seek shelter in -one or other of the tranquil diamond-windowed shops whose sun-blinds -sprawled unevenly along the street. It was the hottest day of the term, -so far. A huge thermometer outside Harrington's gave the shade -temperature as a little over seventy-nine; all the roadway was bubbling -with little gouts of soft tar. The innumerable dogs of Millstead, -quarrelsome by nature, had called an armistice on account of the heat, -and lay languidly across shady sections of the pavement. Speed, tanned -by a week of successive hot days, with a Panama pushed down over his -forehead to shield his eyes from dazzle, pushed open the small door and -entered the cool cavern of the shop. - -His eyes, unaccustomed to the gloom, were blind for a moment, but he -heard movement of some kind behind the counter. "I want an atlas of the -British Isles," he said, feeling his way across the shop. "A school -atlas, I mean. Cheap, rather, you know--about a shilling or -one-and-sixpence." - -He heard Clare's voice reply: "Yes, Mr. Speed, I know what you want. Hot -weather, isn't it?" - -"Very." - -She went on, searching meanwhile along some shelves: "Nice of you not to -bother about seeing me home the other night, Mr. Speed." - -He said, with a touch of embarrassment: "Well, you see, you told me. -About--about Miss Ervine getting jealous, you know." - -"It was nice of you to take my information without doubting it." - -He said, rather to his own surprise: "As a matter of fact, I'm not sure -that I don't doubt it. Miss Ervine seems to me a perfectly delightful -and natural girl, far too unsophisticated to be jealous of anybody. The -more I see of her the more I like her." - -After a pause she answered quietly: "Well, I'm not surprised at that." - -"I suppose," he went on, "with her it's rather the opposite. I mean, the -more she sees of me the less she likes me. Isn't that it?" - -"I shouldn't think she likes you any less than she did at first.... -Here's the atlas. It's one and three--I'd better put it on your account, -eh?" - -"Yes, yes, of course.... So you think--" - -She interrupted him quickly with: "Mr. Speed, you'd better not ask me -what I think. You're far more subtle in understanding people than I am, -and it won't take you long to discover what Helen thinks of you if you -set about with the intention.... Those sketch-blocks you ordered haven't -come in yet.... Well, good afternoon!" - -Another customer had entered the shop, so that all he could do was to -return a rather dazed "Good afternoon" and emerge into the blazing High -Street. He walked back to the school in a state of not unpleasant -puzzlement. - - - - -II - - -The term progressed, and towards the end of May occurred the death of -Sir Huntly Polk, Bart., Chairman of the Governors of Millstead School. -This would not have in any way affected Speed (who had never even met -Sir Huntly) had not a Memorial Service been arranged at which he was to -play Chopin's Funeral March on the chapel organ. It was a decent modern -instrument, operated usually by Raggs, the visiting organist, who -combined a past reputation of great splendour with a present passion for -the _vox humana_ stop; but Speed sometimes took the place of Raggs when -Raggs wanted time off. And at the time fixed for the Sir Huntly Polk -Memorial Service Raggs was adjudicating with great solemnity at a -Northern musical festival. - -Speed was not a particularly good organist, and it was only reluctantly -that he undertook Raggs' duty for him. For one thing, he was always -slightly nervous of doing things in public. And for another thing, he -would have to practice a great deal in order to prepare himself for the -occasion, and he had neither the time nor the inclination for hours of -practice. However, when the Head said: "I know I can--um, yes--rely upon -you, Mr. Speed," Speed knew that there was no way out of it. Besides, he -was feeling his way in the school with marvellous ease and accuracy, and -each new duty undertaken by special request increased and improved his -prestige. - -After a few days' trial he found it was rather pleasant to climb the -ladder to the organ-loft amid the rich cool dusk of the chapel, switch -on the buzzing motor that operated the electric power, and play, not -only Chopin's Funeral March but anything else he liked. Often he would -merely improvise, beginning with a simple theme announced on single -notes, and broadening and loudening into climax. Always as he played he -could see the shafts of sunlight falling amidst the dusty pews, the -many-coloured glitter of the stained-glass in the oriel window, and in -an opaque haze in the distance the white cavern of the chapel entrance -beyond which all was light and sunshine. The whole effect, serene and -tranquillising, hardly stirred him to any distinctly religious emotion, -but it set up in him acutely that emotional sensitiveness to things -secret and unseen, that insurgent consciousness, clear as the sky, yet -impossible to translate into words, of deep wells of meaning beneath all -the froth and commotion of his five passionate senses. - -There was a mirror just above the level of his eyes as he sat at the -keyboard, a mirror by means of which he could keep a casual eye on the -pulpit and choir-stalls and the one or two front pews. And one golden -afternoon as he was playing the _adagio_ movement out of Beethoven's -"Sonata Pathétique," a stray side-glance into the mirror showed him -that he had an audience--of one. She was sitting at the end of the front -pew of all, nearest the lectern; she was listening, very simply and -unspectacularly. Speed's first impulse was to stop; his second to switch -off from the "Sonata Pathétique" into something more blatantly -dramatic. He had, with the first kindling warmth of the sensation of -seeing her, a passionate longing to touch somehow her emotions, or, if -he could not do that, to stir her sentimentality, at any rate; he would -have played the most saccharine picture-palace trash, with _vox humana_ -and _tremolo_ stops combined, if he had thought that by doing so he -could fill her eyes. Third thoughts, however, better than either the -second or first, told him that he had better finish the _adagio_ -movement of the Sonata before betraying the fact that he knew she was -present. He did so accordingly, playing rather well; then, when the last -echoes had died away, he swung his legs over the bench and addressed -her. He said, in a conversational tone that sounded rather incongruous -in its surroundings: "Good afternoon, Miss Ervine!" - -She looked up, evidently startled, and answered, with a half-smile: "Oh, -good afternoon, Mr. Speed." - -He went on: "I hope I haven't bored you. Is there anything in particular -you'd like me to play to you?" - -She walked out of the pew and along the tiled arena between the -choir-stalls to a point where she stood gazing directly up at him. The -organ was on the south side of the choir, perched rather precipitously -in an overhead chamber that looked down on to the rest of the chapel -rather as a bay-window looks on to a street. To Speed, as he saw her, -the situation seemed somewhat like the balcony scene with the positions -of Romeo and Juliet reversed. And never, he thought, had she looked so -beautiful as she did then, with her head poised at an upward angle as if -in mute and delicate appeal, and her arms limply at her side, motionless -and inconspicuous, as though all the meaning and significance of her -were flung upwards into the single soaring glance of her eyes. A shaft -of sunlight, filtered through the crimson of an apostle's robe, struck -her hair and kindled it at once into flame; her eyes, blue and laughing, -gazed heavenwards with a look of matchless tranquillity. She might have -been a saint, come to life out of the sun-drenched stained-glass. - -She cried out, like a happy child: "Oh, I _have_ enjoyed it, Mr. Speed! -_All_ of it. I _do_ wish I could come up there and watch you play!" - -With startled eagerness he answered: "Come up then--I should be -delighted! Go round into the vestry and I'll help you up the ladder." - -Instinct warned him that she was only a child, interested in the merely -mechanical tricks of how things were done; that she wanted to see the -working of the stops and pedals more than to hear the music; that this -impulse of hers did not betoken any particular friendliness for him or -admiration for his playing. Yet some secondary instinct, some quick -passionate enthusiasm, swept away the calculating logic of that, and -made him a prey to the wildest and raptest of anticipations. - -In the vestry she blushed violently as he met her; she seemed more a -child than ever before. And she scampered up the steep ladder into the -loft with an agility that bewildered him. - -He never dreamt that she could so put away all fear and embarrassment of -his presence; as she clambered up on to the end of the bench beside him -(for there was no seating-room anywhere else) he wondered if this were -merely a mood of hers, or if some real and deep change had come over her -since their last meeting. She was so delicately lovely; to see her -there, with her eyes upon him, so few inches from his, gave him a -curious electrical pricking of the skin. Sometimes, he noticed, her eyes -watched his hands steadily; sometimes, with a look half-bold, -half-timid, they travelled for an instant to his face. He even wondered, -with an egotism that made him smile inwardly, if she were thinking him -good-looking. - -"Now," he said, beginning to pull out the necessary stops, "what shall -we have?--'The Moonlight Sonata,' eh?" - -"Yes," she assented, eagerly. "I've heard Clare talk about it." - -He played it to her; then he played her a medley of Bach, Dvorak, -Mozart, Mendelssohn and Lemare. He was surprised and pleased to discover -that, on the whole, she preferred the good music to the not so good, -although, of course, her musical taste was completely unsophisticated. -Mainly, too, it was the music that kept her attention, though she had a -considerable childish interest in his manual dexterity and in the -mechanical arrangement of the stops and couplings. She said once, in a -pause between two pieces: "Aren't they strange hands?" He replied, -laughing away his embarrassment: "I don't know. Are they?" - -After he had played, rather badly but with great verve, the _Ruy Blas_ -Overture of Mendelssohn, she exclaimed: "Oh, I wish I could play like -that!" - -He said: "But you do play the piano, don't you? And I prefer the piano -to the organ: it's less mechanical." - -She clapped her hands together in a captivatingly childish gesture of -excitement and said: "Oh yes, the piano's lovely, isn't it? But I can't -play well--oh, I wish I could!" - -"You could if you practised hard enough," he answered, with prosaic -encouragement. "I can hear you sometimes, you know, when I'm in my room -at nights and the window's open. I think you could become quite a good -player." - -She leaned her elbow on the keys and started in momentary fright at the -resulting jangle of sound. "I--I get so nervous," she said. "I don't -know why. I could never play except to myself--and Clare." She added, -slowly, and as if the revelation had only barely come to her: "Do you -know--it's strange, isn't it--I think--perhaps--I think I might be able -to play in front of you--_now_--without being nervous!" - -He laughed boisterously and swung himself off the bench. "Very well, -then, that's fine news! You shall try. You shall play some of the Chopin -waltzes to me. Not very suitable for an organ, but that doesn't matter. -Sit further on this bench and play on the lower keyboard. Never mind -about the pedals. And I'll manage the stops for you." - -She wriggled excitedly into the position he had indicated and, laughing -softly, began one of the best-known of the waltzes. The experiment was -not entirely successful, for even an accomplished pianist does not play -well on an organ for the first time, nor do the Chopin waltzes lend -themselves aptly to such an instrument. But one thing, and to Speed the -main thing of all, was quite obvious: she was, as she had said she would -be, entirely free from nervousness of him. After ploughing rather -disastrously through a dozen or so bars she stopped, turned to him with -flushed cheeks and happy eyes, and exclaimed: "There! That's enough! -It's not easy to play, is it?" - -He said, smiling down at her: "No, it's rather hard, especially at -first.... But you weren't nervous then, were you?" - -"Not a bit," she answered, proudly. She added, with a note of warning: -"Don't be surprised if I am when you come in to our house to dinner. I'm -always nervous when father's there." - -Almost he added: "So am I." But the way in which she had mentioned -future invitations to dinner at the Head's house gave him the instant -feeling that henceforward the atmosphere on such occasions would he -subtly different from ever before. The Head's drawing-room, with the -baby grand piano and the curio-cabinets and the faded cabbage-like -design of the carpet, would never look quite the same again; the Head's -drawing-room would look, perhaps, less like a cross between a lady's -boudoir and the board-room of a City company; even the Head's study -might take on a kindlier, less sinister hue. - -He said, still with his eyes smiling upon her: "Who teaches you the -piano?" - -"A Miss Peacham used to. I don't have a teacher now." - -"I don't know," he said, beginning to flush with the consciousness of -his great daring, "if you would care to let me help you at all. I should -be delighted to do so, you know, at any time. Since--" he laughed a -little--"since you're no longer a scrap nervous of me, you might find me -useful in giving you a few odd hints." - -He waited, anxious and perturbed, for her reply. After a sufficient -pause she answered slowly, as if thinking it out: "That would -be--rather--fine--I think." - -Most inopportunely then the bell began to ring for afternoon-school, -and, most inopportunely also, he was due to take five _beta_ in drawing. -They clambered down the ladder, chatting vivaciously the while, and at -the vestry door, when they separated she said eagerly: "Oh, I've had -_such_ a good time, Mr. Speed. Haven't you?" - -"Rather!" he answered, with boyish emphasis and enthusiasm. - -That afternoon hour, spent bewilderingly with five _beta_ in the -art-room that was full of plaster casts and free-hand models and framed -reproductions of famous pictures, went for Speed like the passage of a -moment. His heart and brain were tingling with excitement, teeming with -suppressed consciousness. The green of the lawns as he looked out of the -window seemed greener than ever before; the particles of dust that shone -in the shafts of sunlight seemed to him each one mightily distinct; the -glint of a boy's golden hair in the sunshine was, to his eyes, like a -patch of flame that momentarily put all else in a haze. It seemed to -him, passionately and tremendously, that for the first time in his life -he was alive; more than that even: it seemed to him that for the first -time since the beginning of all things life had come shatteringly into -the world. - - - - -III - - -"I should think, Mr. Speed, you have found out by now whether Helen -likes you or not." - -Those words of Clare Harrington echoed in his ears as he walked amidst -the dappled sunlight on the Millstead road. They echoed first of all in -the quiet tones in which Clare had uttered them; next, they took on a -subtle, meaningful note of their own; finally, they submerged all else -in a crescendo of passionate triumph. Speed was almost stupefied by -their gradually self-revealing significance. He strode on faster, dug -his heels more decisively into the dust of the roadside; he laughed -aloud; his walking-stick pirouetted in a joyful circle. To any passer-by -he must have seemed a little mad. And all because of a few words that -Clare Harrington, riding along the lane on her bicycle, had stopped to -say to him. - -June, lovely and serene, had spread itself out over Millstead like a -veil of purest magic; every day the sun climbed high and shone fiercely; -every night the world slept under the starshine; all the passage of -nights and days was one moving pageant of wonderment. And Speed was -happy, gloriously, overwhelmingly happy. Never in all his life before -had he been so happy; never had he tasted, even to an infinitesimal -extent, the kind of happiness that bathed and drenched him now. -Rapturously lovely were those long June days, days that turned Millstead -into a flaming paradise of sights and sounds. In the mornings, he rose -early, took a cold plunge in the swimming-bath, and breakfasted with the -school amidst the cool morning freshness that, by its very quality of -chill, seemed to suggest bewitchingly the warmth that was to come. -Chapel followed breakfast, and after that, until noon, his time was -spent in the Art and Music Rooms and the various form-rooms in which he -contrived to satisfy parental avidity for that species of geography -known as commercial. From noon until midday dinner he either marked -books in his room or went shopping into the town. During that happy hour -the cricket was beginning, and the dining-hall at one o'clock was gay -with cream flannels and variously chromatic blazers. Speed loved the -midday meal with the school; he liked to chat with his neighbours at -table, to listen to the catalogue of triumphs, anxieties, and -anticipations that never failed to unfold itself to the sympathetic -hearer. Afterwards he was free to spend the afternoon as he liked. He -might cycle dreamily along the sleepy lanes and find himself at tea-time -in some wrinkled little sun-scorched inn, with nothing to do but dream -his own glorious dreams and play with the innkeeper's languid dog and -read local newspapers a fortnight old. Or he might stay the whole -afternoon at Millstead, lazily watching the cricket from a deck-chair on -the pavilion verandah and sipping the tuck-shop's iced lemonade. Less -often he would play cricket himself, never scoring more than ten or a -dozen runs, but fielding with a dogged energy which occasionally only -just missed deserving the epithet brilliant. And sometimes, in the -excess of his enthusiasm, he would take selected parties of the boys to -Pangbourne Cathedral, some eighteen miles distant, and show them the -immense nave and the Lady Chapel with the decapitated statues and the -marvellous stained-glass of the Octagon. - -Then dinner, conversational and sometimes boisterous, in the Masters' -Common-Room, and afterwards, unless it were his evening for taking -preparation, an hour at least of silence before the corridors and -dormitories became noisy. During this hour he would often sit by the -open window in his room and hear the rooks cawing in the high trees and -the _clankety-clank_ of the roller on the cricket-pitch and all the -mingled sounds and commotions that seemed to him to make the silence of -the summer evenings more magical than ever. Often, too, he would hear -the sound of the Head's piano, a faint half-pathetic tinkle from below. - -Half-past eight let loose the glorious pandemonium; he could hear from -his room the chiming of the school-bell, and then, softly at first, but -soon rising to a tempestuous flood, the tide of invasion sweeping down -the steps of the Big Hall and pouring into the houses. Always it -thrilled him by its mere strength and volume of sound; thrilled him with -pride and passion to think that he belonged to this heart that throbbed -with such onrushing zest and vitality. Soon the first adventurous -lappings of the tide reached the corridor outside his room; he loved the -noise and commotion of it; he loved the shouting and singing and yelling -and the boisterous laughter; he loved the faint murmur of conflicting -gramophones and the smells of coffee and cocoa that rose up from the -downstairs studies; he loved the sound of old Hartopp's voice as he -stood at the foot of the stairs at ten o'clock and shouted, in a key -that sent up a melodious echoing through all the passages and landings: -"Time, gentlemen, time!"--And when the lights in the dormitories had all -been put out, and Millstead at last was silent under the stars, he loved -above all things the strange magic of his own senses, that revealed him -a Millstead that nobody else had ever seen, a Millstead rapt and -ethereal, one with the haze of night and the summer starshine. - -He told himself, in the moments when he reacted from the abandonment of -his soul to dreaming, that he was sentimental, that he loved too -readily, that beauty stirred him more than it ought, that life was too -vividly emotional, too mighty a conqueror of his senses. But then, in -the calm midst of reasoning, that same wild, tremulous consciousness of -wonder and romance would envelop him afresh like a strong flood; it was -a fierce, passionate ache in his bones, only to be forgotten for unreal, -unliving instants. And one moment, when he sat by the window hearing the -far-off murmur of Chopin on the Head's piano, he knew most simply and -perfectly why it was that all this was so. It was because he was very -deeply and passionately in love. In his dreams, his wild and bewitching -dreams, she was a fairy-child, ethereal and half unreal, the rapt -half-embodied spirit of Millstead itself, luring him by her sweet and -fragrant vitality. He saw in the sunlight always the golden glint of her -hair; in music no more than subtle and exquisite reminders of her; in -all the world of sights and sounds and feelings a deep transfiguring -passion that was his own for her. - -And in the flesh he met her often in the school grounds, where she might -say: "Oh, Mr. Speed, I'm so glad I've met you! I want you to come in and -hear me play something." They would stroll together over the lawns into -the Head's house and settle themselves in the stuffy-smelling -drawing-room. Doctor and Mrs. Ervine were frequently out in the -afternoons, and Potter, it was believed, dozed in the butler's pantry. -Speed would play the piano to the girl and then she to him, and when -they were both tired of playing they talked awhile. Everything of her -seemed to him most perfect and delicious. Once he asked her tactfully -about reading novelettes, and she said: "I read them sometimes because -there's nothing in father's library that I care for. It's nearly all -sermons and Latin grammars." Immediately it appeared to him that all was -satisfactory and entrancingly explained; a vague unrestfulness in him -was made suddenly tranquil; her habit of reading novelettes made her -more dear and lovable than ever. He said: "I wonder if you'd like me to -lend you some books?--_Interesting_ books, I promise you."--She -answered, with her child-like enthusiasm: "Oh, I'd love that, Mr. -Speed!" - -He lent her Hans Andersen's fairy tales. - -Once in chapel, as he declaimed the final verse of the eighty-eighth -Psalm, he looked for a fraction of a second at the Head's pew and saw -that she was watching him. "Lover and friend hast Thou put far from me, -and mine acquaintance into darkness."--He saw a blush kindle her cheeks -like flame. - -One week-day morning he met the Head in the middle of the quadrangle. -The Head beamed on him cordially and said: "I understand, Mr. Speed, -that you--um--give my daughter--occasional--um, yes--assistance with her -music. Very kind of you, I'm sure--um, yes--extremely kind of you, Mr. -Speed." - -He added, dreamily: "My daughter--still--um, yes--still a child in many -ways--makes few friends--um, yes--very few. Seems to have taken quite -an--um, yes--quite a _fancy_ to you, Mr. Speed." - -And Speed answered, with an embarrassment that was ridiculously -schoolboyish: "Indeed, sir?--Indeed?" - - - - -IV - - -Speech Day at Millstead. - -Speed sat shyly on his chair on the platform, wrapping his gown -round him nervously, and gazing, every now and then, at the -fashionably-dressed throng that crowded the Big Hall to its utmost -capacity. It was a day of ordeals, but his own chief ordeal was safely -past; the school-choir had grappled quite creditably with Stanford's _Te -Deum_ at the chapel service that morning. He was feeling very happy, -even amidst his nervousness. His eyes wandered to the end of the front -row of the auditorium, where Helen Ervine and Clare Harrington sat -together. They were gossiping and laughing. - -The Chairman, Sir Henry Briggs, rose to introduce the principal guest, -Lord Portway. Lord Portway, so said Sir Henry Briggs, needed no -introduction. Lord Portway.... - -Speed listened dreamfully. - -Then Lord Portway. Lord Portway confessed himself to be a poor speaker, -but hoped that it would not always be those with a glib tongue that got -on in the world. (Laughter and cheers.) When he (Lord Portway) was at -school he was ashamed to say that he never received a single prize. -(More laughter.) He hoped that all the boys of Millstead, whether they -had prizes or not, would remember that it wasn't always the -prize-winners at school who did best in the battle of life. (Hear, -hear.) He would just like to give them all a word or two of advice. Be -thorough. (Cheers.) Brilliance wasn't everything. If he were engaging an -employee and he had the choice of two men, one brilliant and the other -thorough, he should choose the thorough one. He was certain that some, -at least, of those Millstead boys who had won no prizes would do great -things and become famous in after-life.... - -Speed watched Doctor Ervine's face; saw the firm mouth expand, from time -to time, into a mirthless automatic smile whenever the audience was -stirred to laughter. And Mrs. Ervine fidgeted with her dress and glanced -about her with nervously sparkling eyes. - -Finally, said Lord Portway, he would like to ask the Headmaster to grant -the boys of Millstead a whole holiday.... (Cheers, deafening and -continuous.) - -It was, of course, the universal custom that Speech Day should be -followed by a week-end's holiday in which those boys who lived within -easy reach might go home. Many boys had already made their arrangements -and chosen their trains, but, respecting the theory that the holiday -depended on Lord Portway's asking for it, they cheered as if he had -conferred an inestimable boon upon them. - -The Head, raising his hand when the clamour had lasted a sufficient -time, announced: "My Lord, I have--um--great pleasure in granting your -request." - -More deafening cheers. The masters round about Speed, witnesses of this -little farce for a number of successive years varying from one to -thirty, smiled and whispered together condescendingly. - -Sir Henry Briggs, thick-voiced and ponderous. "I--I call upon the -Headmaster ..." - -Doctor Ervine rose, cleared his throat, and began: "My Lord,--um--and -Ladies and Gentlemen--." A certain sage--he would leave it to his -sixth-form boys to give the gentleman's name--(Laughter)--had declared -that that nation was happy which had no history. It had often occurred -to him that the remark could be neatly and appositely adapted to a -public-school--happy was that public-school year about which, on Speech -Day, the Headmaster could find very little to say. (Laughter.) Certainly -it was true of this particular year. It had been a very happy one, a -very successful one, and really, there was not much else to say. One or -two things, however, he would like to mention especially. First, in the -world of Sport. He put Sport first merely because alphabetically it came -before Work. (Laughter.) Millstead had had a very successful football -and hockey season, and only that week at cricket they had defeated -Selhurst. (Cheers).... In the world of scholarship the year had also -been successful, no fewer than thirty-eight Millsteadians having passed -the Lower Certificate Examination of the Oxford and Cambridge Board. -(Cheers.) One of the sixth-form boys, A. V. Cobham, had obtained an -exhibition at Magdalen College, Cambridge. (Cheers.) H. O. Catterwall, -who left some years back, had been appointed Deputy Revenue Commissioner -for the district of--um--Bhungi-Bhoolu. (Cheers.) Two boys, R. Heming -and B. Shales, had obtained distinctions at London University. -(Cheers.).... Of the Masters, all he could say was that he could not -believe that any Headmaster in the country was supported by a staff more -loyal and efficient. (Cheers.) They had to welcome one addition,--he -might say, although he (the addition) had only been at Millstead a few -weeks--a very valued addition--to the school staff. That was Mr. Speed. -(Loud cheers). Mr. Speed was very young, and youth, as they all knew, -was very enthusiastic. (Cheers and laughter.) In fact, although Mr. -Speed had been at Millstead such a short time, he had already earned and -deserved the name of the School Enthusiast. (Laughter.) He had -had a very kind letter from Mr. Speed's father, Sir Charles -Speed--(pause)--regretting his inability, owing to a previously -contracted engagement, to be present at the Speech Day celebrations, and -he (the Head) was particularly sorry he could not come because it would -have done him good, he felt sure, to see how universally popular at -Millstead was his enthusiastic son. (Cheers and laughter.) He hoped -Millstead would have the benefit of Mr. Speed's gifts and personality -for many, many years to come. (Loud cheers.).... He must not conclude -without some reference to the sad blow that had struck the school only a -week or so before. He alluded to the lamented passing-away of Sir Huntly -Polk, for many years Chairman on the Governing Board.... - -Speed heard no more. He felt himself beginning to burn all over; he put -one hand to his cheek in a vague and instinctive gesture of -self-protection. Of course, behind his embarrassment he was pleased, -rapturously pleased; but at first his predominant emotion was surprise. -It had never occurred to him that the Head would mention him in a -speech, or that he would invite his father to the Speech Day ceremonies. -Then, as he heard the cheering of the boys at the mention of his name, -emotion swallowed his surprise and everything became a blur. - -After the ceremony he met the two girls outside the Big Hall. Clare -said: "Poor man--you looked _so_ uncomfortable while everybody was -cheering you! But really, you know, it is nice to be praised, isn't it?" - -And Helen, speaking softly so that no one else should hear, whispered: -"I daresay I can get free about nine o'clock to-night. We can go for a -walk, eh, Kenneth?--Nine o'clock by the pavilion steps, then." - -Her voice, muffled and yet eager, trembled like the note of a bell on a -windy day. - -Speed whispered, joyously: "Righto, Helen, I'll be there." - -To such a pitch had their relationship developed as a result of -music-lessons and book-lendings and casual encounters. And now they were -living the most exquisite of all moments, when each could guess but -could not be quite certain of the other's love. Day had followed day, -each one more tremulously beautiful than the one before, each one more -exquisitely near to something whose beauty was too keen and blinding to -be studied; each day the light in their eyes had grown brighter, -fiercer, more bursting from within. But now, as they met and separated -in the laughing crowd that squirmed its way down the steps of the Big -Hall, some subtle telepathy between their minds told them that never -again would they shrink from the vivid joy of confession. To-night ... -thought Speed, as he went up to his room and slipped off his cap and -gown. And the same wild ecstasy of anticipation was in Helen's mind as -she walked with Clare across the lawns to the Head's house. - - - - -V - - -That night the moon was full and high; the leaden roofs and cupola of -the pavilion gleamed like silver plaques; and all the cricket-pitch was -covered with a thin, white, motionless tide into which the oblong -shadows pushed out like the black piers of a jetty. Millstead was silent -and serene. A third of its inhabitants had departed by the evening -trains; perhaps another third was with its parents in the lounges of the -town hotels; the remainder, reacting from the day's excitement and -sobered by the unaccustomed sparseness of the population, was more -silent than usual. Lights gleamed in the dormitories and basement -bathrooms, but there was an absence of stir, rather than of sound, which -gave to the whole place a curious aspect of forlornness; no sudden -boisterous shout sent its message spinning along the corridor and out of -some wide-open window into the night. It was a world of dreams and -spells, and to Speed, standing in the jet-black shadow of the pavilion -steps, it seemed that sight and sound were almost one; that he could -hear moonlight humming everywhere around him, and see the tremor in the -sky as the nine o'clock chiming fell from the chapel belfry. - -She came to him like a shy wraith, resolving out of the haze of -moonbeams. The bright gold of her hair, drenched now in silver, had -turned to a glossy blackness that had in it some subtle and unearthly -colour that could be touched rather than seen; Speed felt his fingers -tingle as at a new sensation. Something richly and manifestly different -was abroad in the world, something different from what had ever been -there before; the grey shining pools of her eyes were like pictures in a -trance. He knew, strangely and intimately, that he loved her and that -she loved him, that there was exquisite sweetness in everything that -could happen to them, that all the world was wonderfully in time and -tune with their own blind-fold yet miraculously self-guiding -inclinations. Tears, lovely in moonlight, shone in her clear eyes, eyes -that were deep and dark under the night sky; he put his arm around her -and touched his cheek with hers. It was as if his body began to dissolve -at that first ineffable thrill; he trembled vitally; then, after a pause -of magic, kissed her dark, wet, offering lips, not with passion, but -with all the wistful gentleness of the night itself, as if he were -afraid that she might fly away, mothlike, from a rough touch. The -moonlight, sight and sound fused into one, throbbed in his eyes and -ears; his heart, beating quickly, hammered, it seemed, against the -stars. It was the most exquisite and tremulous revelation of heaven, -heaven that knew neither bound nor end. - -"Wonderful child!" he whispered. - -She replied, in a voice deep as the diapason note of an organ: "_Am_ I -wonderful?" - -"_You_ are," she said, after a pause. - -He nodded. - -"_I_?" He smiled, caressing her hair. "I feel--I feel, Helen, as if -nothing in the world had ever happened to me until this night! Nothing -at all!" - -"_I_ do," she whispered. - -"As if--as if nothing in the world had ever happened to anybody until -now." - -"You love me?" - -"Yes, Kenneth." - -"I love you." - -"I'm--I'm--I'm glad." - -They stood together for a long while with the moonlight on their faces, -watching and thinking and dreaming and wondering. The ten o'clock chimes -littered the air with their mingled pathos and cheer; the hour had been -like the dissolving moment of a dream. - -As they entered the shadows of the high trees and came in sight of -Milner's, a tall cliff of winking yellow windows, they stopped and -kissed again, a shade more passionately than before. - -"But oh," she exclaimed as they separated in the shadow of the Head's -gateway, "I _wish_ I was clever! I wish I was as clever as you! I'm not, -Kenneth, and you mustn't think I am. I'm--I'm _stupid_, compared with -you. And yet"--her voice kindled with a strange thrill--"and yet you say -I'm wonderful! _Wonderful_!--_Am_ I?--Really wonderful?" - -"Wonderful," he whispered, fervently. - -She cried, softly but with passion: "Oh, I'm glad--glad--I'm glad. -It's--it's glorious to--to think that you think that. But oh, Kenneth, -Kenneth, don't find out that I'm not." She added, very softly and almost -as if reassuring herself of something: "I--I love you very--_very_ -much." - -They could not tear themselves away from each other. The lights in the -dormitories winked out one by one; the quarter-chimes sprinkled their -music on the moon-white lawns; yet still, fearful to separate, they -whispered amidst the shadows. Millstead, towering on all sides of them -vast and radiant, bathed them in her own deep passionless tranquillity; -Millstead, a little forlorn that night, yet ever a mighty parent, -serenely watchful over her children. - - - - -VI - - -He decided that night that he would write a story about Millstead; that -he would do for Millstead what other people had already done for Eton -and Harrow and Rugby. He would put down all the magic that he had seen -and felt; he would transfer to paper the subtle enchantment of the -golden summer days, the moonlit nights, the steamy warmth of -the bathrooms, the shouting in the dormitories, the buzz of -movement and conversation in the dining hall, the cool gloom of the -chapel--everything that came effortlessly into his mind whenever he -thought of Millstead. All the beauty and emotion and rapture that he had -seen and felt must not, he determined, be locked inside him: it -clamoured to be set free, to flow strongly yet purposefully in the -channel of some mighty undertaking. - -Clanwell asked him in to coffee that night: from half-past ten till -half-past eleven Speed lounged in one of Clanwell's easy chairs and -found a great difficulty in paying attention to what Clanwell was -saying. In the end his thoughts burst, as it were, their barriers: he -said: "D'you know, Clanwell, I've had an idea--some time, you know--to -write a tale about Millstead?" - -"Really?--A school story, you mean?" - -"Yes. You see--I feel--oh, well--there's a sort of atmosphere about the -place, if you know what I mean--a rather wonderful sort of atmosphere. -If somebody could only manage to express it in words they'd make rather -a fine story, I should think." - -Clanwell said: "Yes, I've known that atmosphere for a dozen years, but -I'm quite certain I could never write about it. And you think you -could?" - -"I thought of trying, anyway, Millstead in summer-time--" Speed's voice -quivered with rapture--"It's simply divine!" - -"But you haven't seen it in winter-time yet. You can't write a story -about one summer-term." - -"No." Speed pondered, and said doubtfully: "No, I suppose not. It does -sound rather arrogant, doesn't it, for me to talk of writing a -school-story about Millstead after a few weeks at it, while you, after a -dozen years, don't feel equal to the task?" - -"When one is young and in love," declared Clanwell slowly, "one feels -arrogant." - -Speed laughed uproariously: it was as if Clanwell's remark had let loose -a cataract of emotion in him. "You despise my condition a little, don't -you?" he said. - -"No," answered Clanwell, "I don't despise it at all: I just recognize -it, that's all." He paused and began again: "I wonder if you'll let me -speak to you a trifle seriously, Speed, without getting offended with -me?" - -"Of course I will. Fire away!" - -Clanwell knocked out his pipe on the bars of the empty firegrate and -said, rather curtly: "Don't see too much of Miss Ervine." - -"What!" - -Speed jerked forward in his chair and a sharp light entered his eyes. -Clanwell continued, unmoved: "You said you weren't going to get -offended, Speed. I hope you'll keep your promise. Understand, I've -nothing to say against Miss Ervine at all, and if I had, I shouldn't -take on the job of telling you about it. All that concerns me is just -the matter of--of expediency, if you like to put it that way." - -"What do you mean?" - -"Just this. It doesn't do you any good in the school to be seen -continually meeting her. The Common-Room, which liked you immensely at -first when you came, is just beginning to be slightly amused at you. And -the boys have noticed it, you may be sure. Probably you'll find yourself -beginning to be ragged about it soon." - -"But I'm not frightened of being ragged." - -"Oh no, I daresay not.... Still, I've said all I wanted to say. Don't -forget, Speed, that you're pledged not to take offence." - -"Oh, I'll not do that." - -Just before Speed left Clanwell said: "I wouldn't start that tale of -Millstead life just yet if I were you, Speed. Better wait till you're -out of love, at any rate. After all, it's rather a highly coloured -Millstead that you see at present, isn't it?" - -"You think I'm sentimental, eh?" - -"My dear fellow, I think you're by far the most sentimental chap I've -ever come across!--Don't be hurt: it's not a crime. But it's just a bit -of a danger, especially in writing a school-story. That atmosphere you -talk about certainly _does_ exist, and if I had the gift of -self-expression I might try to write about it. I can see it clearly -enough, even though I'm not a scrap in love, and even on the dreariest -of days in the winter term. My advice to you is to wait and see if you -can do the same.... Good night, Speed!" - -"Good night," Speed called out, laughing. - -Down Clanwell's corridor and up the stone flight of stairs and along his -own corridor to the door of his own room his heart was thumping -violently, for he knew that as soon as he was alone he would be drenched -in the wild, tumultuous rapture of his own thoughts. Clanwell's advice, -hazily remembered, faded before the splendour of that coming onrush; the -whole interview with Clanwell vanished as if it had never happened, as -if there had been a sort of cataleptic vacuum intervening between that -scene by the Head's gateway and the climb upstairs to his room. - -When he got to bed he could hardly sleep for joy. - - - - -CHAPTER FOUR - - -I - - -The first thing that Clare Harrington said to him when they met a few -days later in Millstead High Street was: "Oh, congratulations, Mr. -Speed!" - -"Congratulations?" he echoed. "What for?" - -She replied quietly: "Helen has told me." - -He began to blush, and to hold his breath in an endeavour to prevent his -cheeks from reddening to an extent that, so he felt, would be observed -by passers-by. "Oh!" he gasped, with a half-embarrassed smile. Then, -after a pause, he queried: "What has she told you?" - -And Clare answered: "That you are going to marry her." - -"Ah!" he exclaimed involuntarily, and he saw her eyes focussed on him -strangely. A slow sensation of warmth began to envelop him; joy rose -round him like a tide as he realised all the pivotal significance of -what Clare had said. He was going to marry Helen!--Strange that, even -amidst his most secret raptures, he had hardly dared to think of that! -He had dreamed exquisite and fragile dreams of her, dreams in which she -was too fairy-like and ethereal for marriage; doubtless, after some -while, his ambitions would have crystallised normally, but up to the -present they had no anchorage on earth at all. And to think that she had -travelled in mind and intention more swiftly and further than he, to -think that she had dared to deduce the final and ultimate reality, gave -him, along with a surging overmastering joy, just a faint tinge of -disappointment as well. But the joy, deepening and spreading, soon -blotted out everything else: he sought Clare's hand and gripped it -triumphantly. Tears were in his eyes and emotion clutching at his voice -as he said: "I'm--I'm glad--she's told you. It's--it's fine, isn't -it?--Don't you think we shall be--happy?" - -"You ought to be," said Clare. - -He struggled with the press of feeling for a moment and then said: "Oh, -let's go into Mason's and have a cup of coffee or something. I want to -talk to you." - -So they sat for a quarter of an hour at a little green-tiled table in -Mason's highly respectable café. The room was over the shop, and -besides affording from the window a panoramic view of the High Street, -contained a small fire-grate, a framed picture of the interior of -Mason's Hygienic Bakery, and a large ginger-and-white cat with kittens. -Altogether it was a most secluded and comfortable rendezvous. - -All the while that they conversed he was but slowly sizing up the -situation and experiencing little alternating wafts of disappointment -and exhilaration. Disappointment, perhaps, that he had not been left the -bewitching task of bringing Helen's mind, along with his own, out of the -clouds and mists of dreams; exhilaration also, because her mind, -womanishly direct, had evidently not needed such guidance. - -He talked rhapsodically to Clare; lashed himself, as it were, into a -state of emotional fervour. He seemed eager to anticipate everything -that anybody could possibly say to Helen's disadvantage, and to explain -away the whole; it was as if he were championing Helen against subtle -and inevitable disparagements. Once or twice he seemed to realise this, -and to realise that he was defending where there was no attack, and then -he stopped, looked confused, and waited for Clare to say something. -Clare, as a matter of fact, said very little, and when she spoke Speed -took hardly any notice, except, perhaps, to allow her words to suggest -to him some fresh rhapsodical outbreak. He said, in a sudden outpouring: -"Of course I know she's only a child. That's the wonderful charm of -her--part of the wonderful charm, at any rate. Some people might say she -wasn't clever, but she is _really_, you know. I admit she doesn't show -up very well in company, but that's because she's nervous. I'm nervous -and I don't show up well. She's got an acute little brain, though. You -should hear the things she says sometimes. Simple little things, some -people might think, but really, when you think about them, they're -clever. Of course, she hasn't been educated up to a good many things, -but then, if she had been, she wouldn't have kept her child-like -simplicity, would she?--She's very quick at picking things up, and I'm -lending her heaps of books. It's the most beautiful job in the world, -being teacher to her. I'm rapturously happy about it and so is she. I -could never stand these empty-headed society kind of women who can -jabber superficially in drawing-rooms about every subject under the sun, -and really, you know, haven't got an original idea in their heads. Helen -has the most wonderful and child-like originality, you know. You've -noticed it yourself, I daresay. Haven't you noticed it?--Yes, I'm sure -you must have. And to think that she really does want to marry me!" - -"Why shouldn't she want to marry you?" interjected Clare, but that was -one of the remarks of which he took little notice. He went on eagerly: -"I don't know what the Head will think when he gets to know about it. -Most probably he'll be fearfully annoyed. Clanwell warned me the other -night. Apparently--" a faint touch of bitterness came into his -voice--"apparently it isn't the thing to treat your Headmaster's -daughter with anything but the most distant reserve." - -"Another question," said Clare shrewdly, "is what your people will think -about it." - -"My people," he replied, again with the note of bitterness in his voice, -"will probably do what they have always done whenever I have proposed -taking any fresh step in life." - -"I can guess what that is. They oppose you, eh?" - -"Oh, not absolutely that. They recognise my right to do what I want, but -they think I'm a fool, all the same. They don't quarrel with me. They -just go on wishing I was like my elder brother." - -"What is he?" - -"He works in my father's office in town. My father, you know--" he -became suddenly confidential in tone--"is a rather typical sort of -business-man. Materialist outlook--wanted me to manage a soap-works. We -never got on absolutely well together. When I told him I was going to -get a mastership at a public school he thought I was mad." - -"And what will he think when you tell him you are going to marry the -Headmaster's daughter?" - -He looked at her curiously, for the first time intent upon her -personally, for something in the way she had uttered that last question -set up in him the suspicion that she was laughing at him. A careful -scrutiny of her features, however, revealed no confirmation: he looked -away again, shrugged his shoulders, and said: "Probably he'll think I'm -madder than ever." - -She gave him a curious glance with uptilted lips which he could not -properly interpret. "Anyway," she said, quietly, "I shouldn't tell him -that Helen's a child." - -"Why not?" - -Clare gave him again that curious, uninterpretable glance. "Because she -isn't, that's all." - -He was recovering from his surprise and was about to say something when -she interrupted him with, perhaps, the first touch of animation that had -so far distinguished her side of the conversation. "I told you," she -said, "on the first night of term that you didn't understand Helen. And -still you don't. If you did, you'd know that she was a woman, not a -child at all." - -"I wish you'd explain a little--" - -"It doesn't need any explanation. You either know it or don't know it. -Apparently you _don't_ know it.... And now, Mr. Speed, I'm afraid I'll -have to go--I can't leave the boy to manage the shop by himself all -morning." - -Speed had the sensation that she was slightly out of patience with him. - - - - -II - - -Clare brought him to earth; his dreams crumpled when he was with her; -his emotional outlook sagged, as it were, with the perhaps imagined -pricklings of her shrewdness. He hated her, ever so slightly, because he -felt sometimes between her and himself a subtle and secret hostility, a -hostility in which, because of her cool imperturbability, she had all -the advantage. But when he was not with her his imagination soared and -flamed up higher than ever; it was a fire that Clare's temperament could -only make sulky. Those final weeks of the summer term were glorious -beyond words. He took Clanwell's advice to the extent of not meeting -Helen on the school premises, but hardly a day passed without some -wonderful and secret assignation; the two of them would arrange -afternoon excursions together, picnics, at Parminters, strolls along the -Millstead road at dusk. It was all deeply and inexpressibly lovely. He -told her a great many of his own dreams and ambitions, making her share -them with him; she kindled aptly to his own enthusiasms, readily as a -child might have done. For he was certain that Clare was wrong in that: -Helen was only a child. To marry her seemed a thing of almost unearthly -delicacy; he found himself pitying her sometimes because of the future. -Above all, that she should wish to marry him, that her love should be -capable of such a solemn and ineffable desire, seemed to him nearly a -miracle. "Fragile little thing!" he said to her once, as he kissed -her--"I'm almost afraid of breaking you!"--She answered, in that wistful -childlike voice that was perhaps incongruously sombre in tone: "_Am_ I -fragile?" - -Once, towards dusk, they met the Head along the Millstead road. He -raised his hat and passed them, muttering: "Taking an--um--stroll, -Helen--um--beautiful evening--um, yes--good evening, Mr. Speed!" - -He wore the air of being marvellously discreet. - - - - -III - - -Conversation at dinner in the Masters' Common-Room turned one evening -upon Harrington. "Old Harrington's pretty bad again," Pritchard had -said. "I heard in the town to-day that he'd had another stroke." - -Speed, curiously startled by the utterance of the name, exclaimed "What, -the Harringtons who keep the bookshop?--I didn't know he was ill." - -"Been ill ever since I can remember," replied Pritchard, laconically. - -Then Speed remembered something that the Head had once told him about -Harrington being a littérateur and and an author of books on ethics. - -"I never met him," he said, tentatively, seeking to guide the -conversation into a discussion of the man. - -Pritchard, ever ready to follow up a lead given to him, remarked: "You -missed something, then. He was quite a character. Used to teach here -once, you know." - -"Really?" - -"Used to _try_ to, anyway, when they'd let him. Couldn't keep any sort -of discipline. During his first prep they poured ink down his neck." - -"Pritchard needn't talk," interposed Clanwell, laughing. "During _his_ -first prep they mixed carbide and water under his chair." The rest of -the Common-Room, among whom Pritchard was no favourite, joined in the -laughter. Then Clanwell took up the thread, kinder in his narrative than -Pritchard had been. "I liked Harrington. He was a good sort, but he -wasn't made for a schoolmaster. I told him so, and after his breakdown -he took my advice and left the profession." - -"Breakdown?" said Speed. "He had a breakdown then?" - -"Yes, his wife died when his daughter was born. He never told us -anything about it. One morning he collapsed over a four _alpha_ English -form. I was next door. I was used to a row, but the terrible pandemonium -made me wonder if anything had happened. I went in and found the little -devils giving him sportive first-aid. They'd half undressed him. My -word!--I picked out those that were in my house and gave them a tidy -thrashing. Don't you remember, Lavery?" - -"I remember," said the indolent Lavery, "you trying to persuade me to do -the same with my little lot." - -"But Harrington?" queried Speed, anxious that the conversation should -not be diverted into other channels. - -"Oh, well," resumed Clanwell, "he left Millstead and took to--shall we -call it literature?" - -"What do you mean?" - -"What do I mean?--" Clanwell laughed. "D'you mean to tell me you haven't -heard of Samuel Harrington, author of the famous 'Helping-Hand-Books'?" - -"I haven't." - -"Then I must lend you one or two of them. They'll do you good. Lavery -and I attribute our remarkable success in life to our careful study of -them, don't we, Lavery?" - -"Do we, Clanwell?" - -Ransome, wizened and Voltairish, and agreeable company when stirred to -anecdote, began: "Ah! 'How to be Powerful' was the best, though I think -'How to Become a Dominating Personality' was pretty good. The drollest -of all was 'How to Meet Difficulties.' Speed has a treat in store if he -hasn't read them. They're all in the school-library. The fellow used to -send the Head free autographed copies of each one of them as it -appeared." - -Ransome, rarely beguiled into conversation, always secured a respectful -audience. After a silence he went on: "I used to know old Harrington -pretty well after he took to--writing. He once told me the entire -circumstances of his début into the literary profession. It was rather -droll." - -Ransome paused, and Speed said: "I'd like to hear it." - -A murmur of assent followed from the rest, and Ransome, not without -pleasure at the flattery of his being eagerly listened to, crumbled a -piece of bread by his plate and resumed. "He told me that one morning -after he'd left Millstead he was feeling especially miserable and having -a breakfast of tea and dry bread. So he said, anyway. Remember that, at -that time, he had a baby to look after. The postman brought him, that -morning, a letter from an old school friend of his, a rector in -Somerset, asking him if he would care to earn half-a-guinea by writing -for him an address on 'Self-Control' for the Young Women's Sunshine Club -at Little Pelthing, Somerset. I remember the name of the club and the -village because I remember they struck me as being rather droll at the -time. Harrington said the letter, or part of it, went something like -this: I have just become the proud father of a most wonderful little -baby boy, and you can imagine how infernally busy as well as infernally -happy I am. Could you oblige me with an address on 'Self-Control'?--You -were always rather good at dashing off essays when we were at school. -The address should have a strong moral flavour and should last from -half-an-hour to forty minutes.' ... Well, Harrington sat down to write -that address on 'Self-Control.' He told me that he knew all that anybody -need know about self-control, because he was using prodigious quantities -of it all the time he was writing. Anyway, it was a fine address. The -Reverend Henry Beauchamp Northcroft--another name droll enough to be -remembered--delivered it to the united assembly of the Little Pelthing -Young Women's Sunshine Club, and everybody said it was the finest and -most inspiring address they had ever heard from his lips. It glowed, as -it were, from within; it radiated hope; it held a wonderful and sublime -message for mankind. And, in addition, it lasted from half-an-hour to -forty minutes. Nor was this all. A wealthy and philanthropic lady in the -Reverend Henry Beauchamp Northcroft's congregation--Harrington _did_ -tell me her name, but I suspect it was not droll enough for me to -remember it--suggested that, at her expense, the address should be -printed and published in pamphlet form. With Harrington's consent this -was done, and, so he told me, no fewer than twenty-five thousand copies -of 'Self-Control' were despatched to various centres in England, -America, the Colonies, and on board His Majesty's ships." - -"Do you believe all this?" exclaimed Clanwell, laughing, to the -Common-Room in general. - -"Whether you believe it or not," replied Ransome, severely, "it's -sufficiently droll for it to be worth hearing. And a large part of it is -true, at any rate." - -"Go on then," said Clanwell. - -Ransome (spreading himself out luxuriously), went on: "It seemed to -Harrington that having, to put it vulgarly, scored a fine though -anonymous bull's-eye with 'Self-Control,' he might, with profit, attempt -to do similar business on his own account. Accordingly, he wrote a -collection of some half-dozen didactic essays on such subjects as -'Immortality,' 'Health and Wealth,' 'The Art of Happiness,' and so on, -and sent them to a well-known publisher of works on religion and ethics. -This fellow, after a most unethical delay of several months, returned -them with his curt regrets and the information that such stuff was a -drug on the publishing market. Then Harrington, nothing in the least -daunted, sent them straightway off again to a publisher of sensational -novels. This last gentleman, he was a gentleman, for he replied almost -immediately, agreeing to publish if Mr. Harrington would--I'm quoting -hazily from the letter which Harrington showed me--if he would -'undertake to supply a further eighteen essays to make up a book of the -customary eighty-thousand-word length.'--'You have a distinct vein of -humour,' wrote Mr. Potts, of Larraby and Potts, Limited--that was the -firm--'and we think your work would be very saleable if you would throw -off what appears to be a feeling of restraint.'--So I guess Harrington -just threw off this feeling of restraint, whatever exactly it was, and -began on those eighteen essays.... I hope this tale isn't boring you." - -"Not at all!"--"Go on!"--came the chorus. Ransome smiled. - -"There isn't much to go on to. The book of essays was called -'Sky-Signs,' and it was reviewed rather pleasantly in some of the -papers. Then followed 'About It and About,' a further bundle of didactic -essays, which ran into five editions in six months. And then 'Through my -Lattice Window,' which was the sort of book you were not ashamed to take -into the pew with you and read during the offertory, provided, of -course, that it was handsomely bound in black morocco. And lastly came -the Helping-Hand-Books, which Mr. Speed must read if he is to consider -his education complete. That's all. The story's over." - -After the first buzz of comment Speed said: "I suppose he made plenty of -money out of that sort of thing?" - -Ransome replied: "Yes, he made it and then he lost it. He dabbled in -finance and had a geometrical theory about the rise and fall of rubber -shares. Then he got plentifully in debt and when his health began to -give way he took the bookshop because he thought it would be an easy way -to earn money. He'd have lost on that if his daughter hadn't been a born -business-woman." - -"But surely," said Clanwell, "the money kept on trickling in from his -books?" - -Ransome shook his head. "No, because he'd sold the copyrights for cash -down. He was a child in finance. But all the same he knew how to make -money. For that you should refer to his book, 'How to be Successful,' -_passim_. It's full of excellent fatherly advice." - -Ransome added, with a hardly perceptible smile: "There's also a chapter -about Courtship and Marriage. You might find it interesting, Mr. Speed." - -Speed blushed furiously. - -Afterwards, strolling over to the House with Clanwell, Speed said: "I -say, was that long yarn Ransome told about Harrington true, do you -think?" Clanwell replied: "Well, it may have been. You can never be -quite certain with Ransome, though. But he does know how to tell a -story, doesn't he?" Speed agreed. - -Late that night the news percolated, somehow or other, that old -Harrington was dead. - - - - -IV - - -Curious, perhaps, that Speed, who had never even seen the man, and whose -knowledge of him was derived almost solely from Ransome's "droll" story, -should experience a sensation of personal loss! Yet it was so, -mysteriously and unaccountably: the old man's death took his mind -further away from Millstead than anything had been able to do for some -time. The following morning he met Helen in the lane outside the school -and his first remark to her was: "I say, have you heard about old -Harrington?" - -Helen said: "Yes, isn't it terrible?--I'm so sorry for Clare--I went -down to see her last night. Poor Clare!" - -He saw tears in her eyes, and at this revelation of her abounding pity -and warm-heartedness, his love for her welled up afresh, so that in a -few seconds his soul was wholly in Millstead again. "You look tired, -Helen," he said, taking her by the arm and looking down into her eyes. - -Then she burst into tears. - -"I'm all right," she said, between gulps of sobbing. "It's so sad, -though, isn't it?--Death always frightens me. Oh, I'm so sorry for -Clare. Poor darling Clare! ... Oh, Kenneth--I _was_ miserable last night -when I came home. I didn't know what to do, I was so miserable. I--I -_did_ want to see you, and I--I walked along the garden underneath -Clanwell's room and I heard your voice in there." - -He said, clasping her arm tightly: "Yes, I went to Clanwell for coffee -after prep." - -She went on pathetically: "You sounded so happy--I heard you laughing. -Oh, it was terrible to hear you laughing when I was miserable!" - -"Poor little child!"--He bent down suddenly and kissed her eyes. "What a -sad and forlorn little girl you are this morning!--Don't you guess why -I'm so happy nowadays?" - -"Why are you?" - -He said, very slowly and beautifully: "Because of you. Because you have -made my life utterly and wonderfully different. Because all the beauty -in the world reminds me of you. When I wake up in the morning with the -sun on my face I want to roar with laughter--I don't know why, except -that I'm so happy." - -She smiled gratefully and looked up into his face with large, tender -eyes. "Sometimes," she said, "beauty makes me want to cry, not to laugh. -Last night, in the garden, everything was so lovely, and yet so sad. -Don't you think beautiful things are sad sometimes?"--She paused and -went on, with less excitement: "When I went in, about ten o'clock, I was -so miserable I went in the dining-room to be alone. I was crying and -father came in." - -"Well?" he whispered, eagerly. - -"He wanted to know what was the matter." - -"And you told him about Clare's father, I suppose?" - -"No," she answered. "Don't be angry," she pleaded, laying a hand on his -arm. "I don't know what made me do it--I suppose it was instinct. -Anyway, you were going to, soon, even if I hadn't. I--I told father -about--us!" - -"You did?" - -"Yes. Don't be angry with me." - -"My darling, I'm not angry with you. What did he say?" - -She came so close to him that he could feel her body trembling with -emotion. "He didn't mind," she whispered. "He didn't mind at all. -Kenneth, aren't you glad?--Isn't it fine of him?" - -"Glorious!" he answered, taking a deep breath. Again the tide of joy -seemed to engulf him, joy immense and stupefying. He would have taken -her in his arms and kissed her had he not seen people coming along the -lane. "It's wonderful, Helen!" he whispered. Then some secondary thought -seemed to strike him suddenly: he said: "But why were you miserable a -little while ago? Didn't the good news make you feel happy?" - -She answered, still with a touch of sadness: "I didn't know whether you -would think it was good news."--"Helen!" he exclaimed, remonstratively, -clasping her tightly to him: she went on, smiling at him: "Yes, it's -silly of me, isn't it?--But Kenneth, Kenneth, I don't know how it is, -I'm never quite certain of you--there's always a funny sort of fear in -my mind! I know it's silly. I can't help it, though. Perhaps it will all -be different some day." - -"Some day!" he echoed, gazing into her uplifted eyes. - -A vision, secret and excruciatingly lovely, filled their eyes for a -moment. He knew then that to marry her had become his blinding and -passionate ambition. - - - - -V - - -The _Millstead and District Advertiser_ had a long and sympathetic -appreciation of the late Mr. Samuel Harrington in its first July issue. -The Helping-Hand-Books were described as "pleasant little homilies -written with much charm and humour." Speed took one or two of them out -of the School Library and read them. - -About a week after the funeral he called at the shop, ostensibly to buy -a book, but really to offer his condolences. He had been meaning to go, -for several days in succession, but a curious dread of an interview with -Clare had operated each time for postponement. Nor could he understand -this dread. He tried to analyse it, to discover behind it any -conceivable reason or motive; but the search was in vain. He was forced -to suppose, vaguely, that the cause of it was that slight but noticeable -temperamental hostility between himself and Clare which always resulted -in a clouding over of his dreams. - -It was a chilly day for July; there was no sun, and the gas was actually -lit in the shop when he called. The boy, a smart under-sized youngster, -was there to serve him, but he asked for Miss Harrington. She must have -heard his voice, for she appeared almost straightway, dressed neatly and -soberly in black, and greeted him with a quite brisk: "Good afternoon, -Mr. Speed!" - -He shook hands with her gravely and began to stammer: "I should have -called before, Miss Harrington, to offer you my sincerest sympathies, -but--" - -She held up her hand in an odd little gesture of reproof and said -interrupting him: "Please don't. If you want a chat come into the back -room. Thomas can attend to the shop." - -He accepted her invitation almost mechanically. It was a small room, -full of businesslike litter such as is usual in the back rooms of shops, -but a piano and bookcase gave it a touch of individuality. As she -pointed him to a seat she said: "Don't think me rude, but this is the -place for conversation. The shop is for buying things. You'll know in -future, won't you?" - -He nodded somewhat vaguely. He could not determine what exactly was -astounding in her, and yet he realised that the whole effect of her was -somehow astounding. More than ever was he conscious of the subtle -hostility, by no means amounting to unfriendliness, but perhaps -importing into her regard for him a tinge of contempt. - -"Do you know," he said, approaching the subject very deliberately, "that -until a very short time ago I knew nothing at all about Mr. Harrington? -You never told me." - -"Why should I?" She was on her guard in an instant. - -He went on: "You may think me sincere or not as you choose, but I should -like to have met him." - -"He had a dislike of being met." - -She said that with a touch of almost vicious asperity. - -He went on, far less daunted by her rudeness than he would have been if -she had given way to emotion of any kind: "Anyway I have got to know him -as well as I can by reading his books." - -"What a way to get to know him!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. She -looked him sternly in the face and said: "Be frank, Mr. Speed, and admit -that you found my father's books the most infantile trash you ever read -in your life!" - -"Miss Harrington!" he exclaimed, protesting. She rose, stood over him -menacingly, and cried: "You have your chance to be frank, mind!" - -He looked at her, tried to frame some polite reply, and found himself -saying astonishingly: "Well, to be perfectly candid, that was rather my -opinion." - -"And mine," she added quietly. - -She was calm in an instant. She looked at him almost sympathetically for -a moment, and with a sudden gesture of satisfaction sat down in a chair -opposite to his. "I'm glad you were frank with me, Mr. Speed," she said. -"I can talk to anybody who's frank with me. It's your nature to confide -in anybody who gives you the least encouragement, but it's not mine. I'm -rather reticent. I remember once you talked to me a lot about your own -people. Perhaps you thought it strange of me not to reciprocate." - -"No, I never thought of it then." - -"You didn't?--Well, I thought perhaps you might have done. Now that -you've shown yourself candid I can tell you very briefly the sort of man -my father was. He was a very dear old hypocrite, and I was very fond of -him. He didn't feel half the things he said in his books, though I think -he was honest enough to try to. He found a good thing and he stuck to -it. After all, writing books was only his trade, and a man oughtn't to -be judged entirely by what he's forced to do in order to make a living." - -He stared at her half-incredulously. She was astounding him more than -ever. She went on, with a curious smile: "He was fifty-seven years old. -When he died he was half-way through his eleventh book. It was to have -been called 'How to Live to Three-Score-Years-and-Ten.' All about eating -nuts and keeping the bedroom windows open at nights, you know." - -He wondered if he were expected to laugh. - -He stammered, after a bewildered pause: "How is all this going to effect -you?--Will you leave Millstead?" - -She replied, with a touch in her voice of what he thought might have -been mockery: "My father foresaw the plight I might be in some day and -thoughtfully left me his counsel on the subject. Perhaps you'd like me -to read it?" - -She went over to the bookcase and took down an edition-de-luxe copy of -one of the Helping-Hand-Books. - -"Here it is--'How to Meet Difficulties'--Page 38--I'll read the -passage--it's only a short one. 'How is it that the greatest and noblest -of men and women are those against whom Fate has set her most tremendous -obstacles?--Simply that it is good for a man or a woman to fight, good -to find paths fraught with dire perils and difficulties galore, good to -accept the ringing challenge of the gods! Nay, I would almost go so far -as to say: lucky is that boy or girl who is cast, forlorn and parentless -upon the world at a tender age, for if there be greatness in him or her -at all, it will be forced to show itself as surely as the warm suns of -May compel each flower to put forth her bravest splendour!' ... So now -you know, Mr. Speed!" - -She had read the passage as if declaiming to an audience. It was quite a -typical extract from the works of the late Mr. Harrington: such phrases -as 'dire perils,' 'difficulties galore,' and 'ringing challenge of the -gods' contained all that was most truly characteristic of the prose -style of the Helping-Hand-Books. - -Speed said, rather coldly: "Do you know what one would wonder, hearing -you talk like this?" - -"What?" - -"One would wonder if you had any heart at all." - -Again the curious look came into her eyes and the note of asperity into -her voice. "If I had, do you think I would let you see it, Mr. Speed?" -she said. - -They stared at each other almost defiantly for a moment; then, as if by -mutual consent, allowed the conversation to wander into unimportant -gossip about Millstead. Nor from those placid channels did it afterwards -stray away. Hostility of a kind persisted between them more patently -than ever; yet, in a curiously instinctive way, they shook hands when -they separated as if they were staunch friends. - -As he stepped out into High Street the thought of Helen came to him as a -shaft of sunlight round the edges of a dark cloud. - - - - -VI - - -Term finished in a scurry of House-matches and examinations. School -House won the cricket trophy and there was a celebratory dinner at which -Speed accompanied songs and made a nervously witty speech and was -vociferously applauded. "We all know we're the best House," said -Clanwell, emphatically, "and what we've got to do is just to prove to -other people that we are." Speed said: "I've only been in School House a -term, but it's been long enough time for me to be glad I'm where I am -and not in any other House." (Cheers.) Amidst such jingoist -insincerities a very pleasant evening romped its way to a close. The -following day, the last day of term, was nearly as full of new -experiences as had been the first day. School House yard was full of -boxes and trunks waiting to be collected by the railway carriers, and in -amongst it all, small boys wandered forlornly, secretly happy yet weak -with the cumulative passion of anticipation. In the evening there was -the farewell dinner in the dining-hall, the distribution of the terminal -magazine, and the end-of-term concert, this last concluding with the -Millstead School-Song, the work of an uninspired composer in one of his -most uninspired moments. Then, towards ten o'clock in the evening, a -short service in chapel, followed by a "rag" on the school quadrangle, -brought the long last day to a close. Cheers were shouted for the -Masters, for Doctor and Mrs. Ervine, for those leaving, and -(facetiously) for the school porter. That night there was singing and -rowdyism in the dormitories, but Speed did not interfere. - -He was ecstatically happy. His first term had been a triumph. And, -fittingly enough, it had ended with the greatest triumph of all. Ever -since Helen had told him of her confession to her father, Speed had been -making up his mind to visit the Head and formally put the matter before -him. That night, the last night of the summer term, after the service in -chapel, when the term, so far as the Head was concerned with it, was -finished. Speed had tapped at the door of the Head's study. - -Once again the sight of that study, yellowly luminous in the -incandescent glow, set up in him a sensation of sinister attraction, as -if the room were full of melancholy ghosts. The Head was still in his -surplice, swirling his arms about the writing-table in an endeavour to -find some mislaid paper. The rows upon rows of shining leather-bound -volumes, somebody on the Synoptic Gospels, somebody else's New Testament -Commentary, seemed to surround him and enfold him like a protective -rampart. The cool air of the summer night floated in through the slit of -open window and blew the gas-light fitfully high and low. Speed thought, -as he entered the room and saw the Head's shining bald head bowed over -the writing-table: Here you have been for goodness knows how many years -and terms, and now has come the end of another one. Don't you feel any -emotion in it at all?--You are getting to be an old man: can you bear to -think of the day you first entered this old room and placed those books -on the shelves instead of those that belonged to your predecessor?--Can -you bear to think of all the generations that have passed by, all the -boys, now men, who have stared at you inside this very room, while time, -which bore them away in a happy tide, has left you for ever -stranded?--Why I, even I, can feel, after the first term, something of -that poignant melancholy which, if I were in your place, would overwhelm -me. Don't you--can't you--feel anything at all-- - -The Head looked up, observed Speed, and said: "Um, yes--pleased to see -you, Mr. Speed--have you come to say good-bye--catching an early train -to-morrow, perhaps--um, yes--eh?" - -"No, sir. I wanted to speak to you on a private matter. Can you spare me -a few moments?" - -"Oh yes, most certainly. Not perhaps the--um--usual time for seeing me, -but still--that is no matter. I shall be--um--happy to talk with you, -Mr. Speed." - -Speed cleared his throat, shifted from one foot to another, and began, -rather loudly, as always when he was nervous: "Miss Ervine, sir, I -believe, spoke to you some while ago about--about herself and me, sir." - -The Head placed the tips of his fingers together and leaned back in his -chair. - -"That is so, Mr. Speed." - -"I--I have been meaning to come and see you about it for some time. I -hope--I hope you didn't think there was anything underhand in my not -seeing you?" - -The Head temporised suavely: "Well--um, yes--perhaps my curiosity did -not go so--um--so far as that. When you return to your room, Mr. Speed, -you will find there an--um--a note from me, requesting you to see me -to-morrow morning. I take it you have not seen that note?" - -"Not yet, sir." - -"Ah, I see. I supposed when you entered that you were catching an early -train in the morning and were--um--purposing to see me to-night -instead.... No matter. You will understand why I wished to see you, no -doubt." - -"Possibly the same reason that I wished to see you." - -"Ah, yes--possibly. Possibly. You have -been--um--quite--um--speedy--in--um--pressing forward your suit with my -daughter. Um, yes--_very_ speedy, I think.... Speedy--Ha--Ha--um, -yes--the play upon words was quite accidental, I assure you." - -Speed, with a wan smile, declared: "I daresay I am to blame for not -having mentioned it to you before now. I decided--I scarcely know -why--to wait until term was over.... I--I love your daughter, and I -believe she loves me. That's all there is to say, I think." - -"Indeed, Mr. Speed?--It must be a very--um--simple matter then." - -Speed laughed, recovering his assurance now that he had made his -principal statement. "I am aware that there are complexities, sir." - -The Head played an imaginary tune on his desk with his outstretched -fingers. "You must--u--listen to me for a little while, Mr. Speed. We -like you very much--I will begin, perhaps unwisely, by telling you that. -You have been all that we could have desired during this last -term--given--um--every satisfaction, indeed. Naturally, I think too of -my daughter's feelings. She is, as you say, extremely--um--fond of you, -and on you depends to a quite considerable extent her--um--happiness. We -could not therefore, my wife and I, refuse to give the matter our very -careful consideration. Now I must--um--cross-examine you a little. You -wish to marry my daughter, is that not so?" - -"Yes." - -"When?" - -The Head flung out the question with disconcerting suddenness. - -Speed, momentarily unbalanced, paused, recovered himself, and said -wisely: "When I can afford to, sir. As soon as I can afford to. You know -my salary and prospects, sir, and are the best judge of how soon I shall -be able to give your daughter the comforts to which she has been -accustomed." - -"A clever reply, Mr. Speed. Um, yes--extremely clever. I gather that you -are quite convinced that you will be happy with my daughter?" - -"I am quite convinced, sir." - -"Then money is the only difficulty. What a troublesome thing money is, -Mr. Speed!--May I ask you whether you have yet consulted your own -parents on the matter?" - -"I have not done so yet. I wanted your reply first." - -"I see. And what--um--do you anticipate will be _their_ reply?" - -Speed was silent for a moment and then said: "I cannot pretend that I -think they will be enthusiastic. They have never agreed with my actions. -But they have the sense to realise that I am old enough to do as I -choose, especially in such a matter as marriage. They certainly wouldn't -quarrel with me over it." - -The Head stared fixedly at Speed for some while; then, with a soft, -crooning tone, began to speak. "Well, you know, Mr. Speed, you are very -young--only twenty-two, I believe."--(Speed interjected: "Twenty-three -next month, sir.")--The Head proceeded: "Twenty-three then. -It's--um--it's rather young for marriage. However, I am--um, -yes--inclined to agree with Professor Potts that one of the--um--curses -of our modern civilisation is that it pushes the--um--marriageable age -too late for the educated man." (And who the devil, thought Speed, is -Professor Potts?)... "Now it so happens, Mr. Speed, that this little -problem of ours can be settled in a way which is satisfactory to myself -and to the school, and which I think will be equally satisfactory to -yourself and my daughter. I don't know whether you know that Lavery -leaves this term?" - -"I didn't know, sir." - -"He has reached the--um--the retiring age. As perhaps you know, Mr. -Speed, Lavery belonged to the--um--old school. In many ways, I think, -the old methods were best, but, of course, one has to keep up with the -times. I am quite certain that the Governors will look favourably on a -very much younger man to be--um--Lavery's successor. It would also bean -advantage if he were married." - -"Married!" echoed Speed. - -"Yes. Married house masters are always preferred.... Then, again, Mr. -Speed, we should want a public-school man.... Of course, Lavery's is a -large House and the position is not one to be--um--lightly undertaken. -And, of course, it is for the Governors to decide, in the last resort. -But if you think about it, Mr. Speed, and if you favour the idea, it -will probably occur to you that you stand a rather good chance. Of -course it requires thinking over a great deal. Um, yes--decide nothing -in a hurry...." - -Speed's mind, hazily receiving the gist of what the Head was saying, -began to execute a wild pirouette. He heard the Head's voice droning on, -but he did not properly hear anything more that was said. He heard in -snatches: "Of course you would have to take up your new duties in--um, -yes--September.... And for that purpose you would get married during the -vacation.... A great chance for you, Mr. Speed ... the Governors ... -very greatly impressed with you at Speech Day.... You would like -Lavery's .... an excellent House.... Plenty of time to think it over, -you know.... Um, yes--plenty of time.... When did you say you were going -home?" - -Speed recovered himself so far as to answer: "Tuesday, sir." - -"Um, yes--delightful, that is--you will be able to dine with us -to-morrow night then, no doubt?--Curious place, Millstead, when -everybody has gone away... Um, yes--extremely delightful... Think it -over very carefully, Mr. Speed ... we dine at seven-thirty during the -vacations, remember.... Good night, then, Mr. Speed.... Um, yes--Good -night!" - -Speed staggered out as if intoxicated. - - - - -VII - - -That was why, hearing the singing and shouting in the dormitories that -night, Speed did not interfere. With happiness surging all around him -how could he have the heart to curtail the happiness of others?--About -half-past ten he went round distributing journey-money, and to each -dormitory in turn he said farewell and wished a pleasant vacation. The -juniors were scampering over one another's beds and pelting one another -with pillows. Speed said merely: "If I were you fellows, I should get to -sleep pretty soon: Hartopp will ring the bells at six, you know." - -Then he went back into his own room, his room that would not be his any -more, for next term he would be in Lavery's. Noisy and insincere as had -been his protestations at the House Dinner about the superiority of -School House over any other, there was yet a sense in which he felt -deeply sorry to leave the place where he had been so happy and -successful. He looked back in memory to that first evening of term, and -remembered his first impression of the room assigned to him; then it had -seemed to him lonely, forlorn, even a little dingy. Hardly a trace of -that earliest aspect remained with it now. At eleven o'clock on the last -night of term it glowed with the warmth of a friendly heart; it held out -loving arms that made Speed, even amidst his joy, piteously sorry to -leave it. The empty firegrate, in which he had never seen a fire, lured -him with the vision of all the cosy winter nights that he had missed. - -Outside it was moonlight again, as when, a month before, he had waited -by the pavilion steps on the evening of the Speech Day. From his open -lattice-window he could see the silver tide lapping against the walls -and trees, the pale sea of the pitch on which there would be no more -cricket, the roof and turret of the pavilion gleaming with liquid -radiance. All was soft and silent, glossy beneath the high moon. It was -as if everything had endured agelessly, as if the passing of a term were -no more than the half-heard tick of a clock in the life of Millstead. - -Leaning out of the window he heard a voice, boyish and sudden, in the -junior dormitory below. - -"I say, Bennett, are you going by the 8:22?" - -An answer came indistinguishably, and then the curt command of the -prefect imposing silence, silence which, reigned over by the moon and -the sky of stars, lasted through the short summer night until dawn. - - - - -BOOK II - - -THE WINTER TERM - - - - -CHAPTER ONE - - -I - - -He breakfasted with Helen upon the first morning of the winter term, -inaptly named because winter does not begin until the term is over. They -had returned the evening before from a month's holiday in Cornwall and -now they were making themselves a little self-consciously at home in the -first-floor rooms that had been assigned to them in Lavery's. The room -in which they breakfasted overlooked the main quadrangle; the silver -coffee-pot on the table shimmered in the rays of the late summer sun. - -Midway through the meal Burton, the porter at Lavery's, tapped at the -door and brought in the letters and the _Daily Telegraph_. - -Speed said: "Hullo, that's luck!--I was thinking I should have to run -down the town to get my paper this morning." - -Burton replied, with a hint of reproach in his voice: "No sir. It was -sent up from Harrington's as usual, sir. They always begin on the first -day of term, sir." - -Speed nodded, curiously conscious of a thrill at the mention of the name -Harrington. Something made him suddenly nervous, so that he said, -boisterously, as if determined to show Burton at all costs that he was -not afraid of him: "Oh, by the way, Burton, you might shut that window a -little, will you?--there's a draught." - -"Yes, sir," replied Burton, again with a hint of subdued reproachfulness -in his tone. While he was shutting the window, moving about very softly -and stealthily himself yet making a tremendous noise with everything -that had to be done with his large clumsy hands, it was necessary for -Speed and Helen to converse on casual and ordinary subjects. - -Speed said: "I should think the ground's far too hard for rugger, -Helen." - -She answered, somberly: "Yes, I daresay it is. It's really summer still, -isn't it?--And I'm so glad. I hate the winters." - -"You hate the winters, eh?--Why's that?" - -"It's so cold, and the pitches are all muddy, and there are horrid -locks-up after dark. Oh, I hate Millstead in winter-time." - -He said, musingly: "We must have big fires when the cold weather comes, -anyway." - -Then Burton departed, closing the door very delicately after him, and -the conversation languished. Speed glanced vaguely through his -correspondence. He was ever so slightly nervous. That month's honeymoon -in Cornwall had passed like a rapt and cloudless vision, but ever beyond -the horizon of it had been the thought of this return to Millstead for -the winter term. How the return to a place where he had been so happy -and of which he had such wonderful memories could have taken in his mind -the semblance of an ordeal, was a question that baffled him entirely. He -felt strangely and unaccountably shy of entering the Masters' -Common-Room again, of meeting Clanwell and Ransome and Pritchard and the -rest, of seeing once again all the well-known faces of the boys whose -summer vacations had been spent so much less eventfully than his. And -yet, as he sat at the breakfast-table and saw Helen opposite him, a -strange warming happiness surged up within him and made him long for the -initial ordeal to be over so that he could pass on to the pure and -wonderful life ahead, that life in which Helen and Millstead would reign -jointly and magnificently. Surely he could call himself blessed with the -most amazing good fortune, to be happily married at the age of -twenty-three and installed in just the position which, more than any -other in the world, he had always coveted!--Consciousness of his supreme -happiness made him quicken with the richest and most rapturous -enthusiasm; he would, he decided in a sudden blinding moment, make -Lavery's the finest of all the houses at Millstead; he would develop -alike the work and the games and the moral tone until the fame of -Lavery's spread far beyond its local boundaries and actually enhanced -the reputation of Millstead itself. Such achievements were not, he knew, -beyond the possibilities of an energetic housemaster, and he, young and -full of enthusiasms, would be a living fount of energy. All the proud -glory of life was before him, and in the fullness of that life there was -nothing that he might not do if he chose. - -All that day he was at the mercy alternately of his tumultuous dreams of -the future and of a presaging nervousness of the imminent ordeals. In -the morning he was occupied chiefly with clerical work, but in the -afternoon, pleading a few errands in town, he took his bicycle out of -the shed and promised Helen that he would not be gone longer than an -hour or so. He felt a little sad to leave her, because he knew that with -the very least encouragement she would have offered to come with him. -Somehow, he would not have been pleased for her to do that; he felt -acutely self-conscious, vaguely yet miserably apprehensive of trials -that were in wait for him. In a few days, of course, everything would be -all right. - -He did not cycle into the town, but along the winding Millstead lane -that led away from the houses and into the uplands around Parminters. -The sun was glorious and warm, and the trees of that deep and heavy -green that had not, so far, more than the faintest of autumnal tints in -it. Along the lane twisting into the cleft of Parminters, memories -assailed him at every yard. He had been so happy here--and here--and -here; here he had laughed loudly at something she had said; here she had -made one of her childish yet incomparably wise remarks. Those old serene -days, those splendid flaming afternoons of the summer term, had been so -sweet and exquisite and fragrantly memorable to him that he could not -forbear to wonder if anything could ever be so lovely again. - -Deep down beneath all the self-consciousness and apprehension and morbid -researching of the past, he knew that he was richly and abundantly -happy. He knew that she was still a child in his own mind; that life -with her was dream-like as had been the rapt anticipation of it; that -the dream, so far from marriage dispelling it, was enhanced by all the -kindling intimacies that swung them both, as it were, into the same -ethereal orbit. When he thought about it he came to the conclusion that -their marriage must be the most wonderful marriage in the world. She was -a child, a strange, winsome fairy-child, streaked with the most fitful -and sombre passion that he had ever known. Nobody, perhaps, would guess -that he and she were man and wife. The thought gratified his sense of -the singularity of what had happened. At the Cornish hotel where they -had stayed he had fancied that their identity as a honeymoon couple had -not been guessed at all; he had thought, with many an inward chuckle, -that people were supposing them to be mysteriously and romantically -unwedded. - -Time passed so slowly on that first day of the winter term. He rode back -at the end of the afternoon with the wind behind him, swinging him in -through the main gateway where he could see the windows of Lavery's pink -in the rays of the setting sun. Lavery's!--Lavery's!--Throughout the day -he had found himself repeating the name constantly, until the syllables -lost all shred of meaning. Lavery's!--Lav-er-izz.... The sounds boomed -in his ears as he entered the tiny drawing-room in which Helen was -waiting for him with the tea almost ready. Tea time!--In a few hours the -great machine of Millstead would have begun to pound its inexorable way. -He felt, listening to the chiming of the quarters, as if he were -standing in the engine-room of an ocean liner, watching the mighty -shafts, now silent and motionless, that would so soon begin their solemn -crashing movement. - -But that evening, about eleven o'clock, all his fears and shynesses were -over, and he felt the most deeply contented man in the world. A fire was -flickering a cheerful glow over the tiny drawing-room; Helen had -complained of chilliness so he had told Burton to light it. He was glad -now that this had been done, for it enabled him to grapple with his -dreams more comfortably. Helen sat in an armchair opposite to him on the -other side of the fire; she was leaning forward with her head on her -hands, so that the firelight shone wonderfully on her hair. He looked at -her from time to time, magnificently in love with her, and always amazed -that she belonged to him. - -The long day of ordeals had passed by. He had dined that evening in the -Masters' Common-Room, and everybody there had pressed round him in a -chorus of eager congratulation. Afterwards he had toured his House, -introducing himself to those of the prefects whom he had not already -met, and strolling round the dormitories to shake hands informally with -the rank and file. Then he had interviewed new boys (there were nineteen -of them), and had distributed a few words of pastoral advice, concluding -with the strict injunction that if they made tea in the basements they -were on no account to throw the slops down the waste-pipes of the baths. -Lastly of all, he had put his head inside each of the dormitories, at -about half-past ten, to bestow a brisk but genial good-night. - -So now, at eleven o'clock, rooted at last in everything that he most -loved in the world, he could pause to gloat over his happiness. Here, in -the snug firelit room, secret and rich with warm shadows; and there, -down the short corridor into the bleak emptiness of the classrooms, was -everything that his heart desired: Helen and Millstead: the two deities -that held passionate sway over him.--Eleven began to chime on the school -clock. The dormitories above were almost silent. She did not speak, did -not look up once from the redness of the fire; she was often like that, -silent with thoughts whose nature he could guess from the dark, tossing -passion that shook her sometimes when, in the midst of such silences, -she suddenly clung to him. She loved him more than ever he could have -imagined: that, more perhaps than anything else, had been the surprise -of that month in Cornwall. - -"Eleven," he said, breaking the rapt silence. - -She said, half humorously, half sadly: "Are you pleased with me?--Are -you satisfied?--Do I quite come up to expectations?" - -He started, looked towards her, and laughed. The laugh disturbed the -silence of the room like the intrusion of something from millions of -miles away. He made a humorous pretence of puzzling it out, as if it -were a baffling problem, and said, finally, with mocking doubtfulness: -"Well, on the whole, I think you do." - -"If I had been on trial for a month you'd still keep me, then?" she went -on, without moving her head out of her hands. - -He answered, in the same vein as before: "If you could guarantee always -to remain up to sample, I daresay I would." - -She raised her head and gave him such a look as, if he had not learned -to know it, would have made him think she was angry with him; it was -sharp with blade-like eagerness, as if she were piercing through his -attitude of jocularity. - -Then, wondering why she did not smile when he was smiling, he put his -arm round her and drew her burning lips to his. "Bedtime," he said, -gaily, "for we've got to be up early in the morning." - -Over about them as they clung together the spirit of Millstead, like a -watchful friend, came suddenly close and intimate, and to Speed, opening -his soul to it joyously, it appeared in the likeness of a golden-haired -child, shy yet sombrely passionate--a wraith of a child that was just -like Helen. Above all, they loved each other, these two, with a love -that surrounded and enveloped all things in a magic haze: they were the -perfect lovers. And over them the real corporeal Millstead brooded in -constant magnificent calm. - - - - -II - - -Soon he was swallowed up in the joyous routine of term-time. He had -never imagined that a housemaster had such a large amount of work to do. -There were no early-morning forms during the winter term, however, and -as also it was a housemaster's privilege to breakfast in his own rooms, -Speed began the day with a happy three-quarters of an hour of -newspaper-scanning, envelope-tearing, and chatting with Helen. After -breakfast work began in earnest. Before term had lasted a week he -discovered that he had at least twice as many duties as in the preceding -term; the Head was certainly not intending to let him slack. There was -the drawing and music of the whole school to superintend, as well as the -choir and chapel-services which, as the once-famous Raggs became more -and more decrepit, fell into Speed's direction almost automatically. -Then also there were a large number of miscellaneous supervisory duties -which the housemasters shared between them, and one or two, at least, -which tradition decreed should be performed entirely by the junior -housemaster. The result of it all was that Speed was, if he had been in -the mood to desire a statutory eight hours' day, considerably -overworked. - -It was fortunate that the work was what he loved. He plunged into it -with terrific zest. Lavery's was a large House, and Lavery himself had -judged all its institutions by the test of whether or not they conduced -to an economy in work for him. The result was an institution that -managed itself with rough-and-ready efficiency, that offered no glaring -scandal to the instrusive eye, yet was, in truth, honeycombed with -corruption of a mild sort, and completely under the sway of powerfully -vested interests. Against this and these Speed set himself out to do -final battle. A prudent housemaster, and certainly one who valued his -own personal comfort, would have postponed the contest, at any rate, -until he had become settled in his position. But Speed, emboldened by -the extraordinary success of his first term, and lured by his own dreams -of a Lavery's that should be the great House at Millstead, would not -delay. In his first week he found five of the prefects enjoying a -pleasant little smoking-party in the Senior prefect's study. They -explained to him that Lavery had never objected to their smoking, -provided they did it unostentatiously, and that Lavery never dreamed of -"barging in upon them" during their evening study-hours. Speed, stung by -their slightly insolent bearing, barked at them in his characteristic -staccato voice when annoyed: "It doesn't matter to me a bit what Lavery -used to let you do. You've got to obey me now, not Lavery. Prefects must -set the example to the others. I shall ask for an undertaking from all -of you that you don't smoke again during term-time. I'll give you till -to-morrow night to decide. Those who refuse will be degraded from -prefecture." - -"You can't degrade without the Head's authority," said Smallwood, the -most insolent of the party. - -Speed replied, colouring suddenly (for he realised that Smallwood had -spoken the truth): "I know my own business, thank you, Smallwood." - -During the following twenty-four hours four out of the half-dozen -House-prefects gave the required undertaking. The other two, Smallwood -and a fellow named Biffin, refused, "on principle," as they said, -without explaining what exactly the qualification meant. Speed went -promptly to the Head and appealed for authority to degrade them. He -found that they had already poured their tale into the Head's receptive -ears, and that they had given the Head the impression that he (Speed) in -a tactless excess of reforming zeal, had been listening at keyholes and -prying around the study-doors at night. The Head, after listening to -Speed's indignant protest, replied, suavely: "I think, Mr. -Speed"--(Speed's relationship as son-in-law never tempted either of them -to any intimacy of address)--"I think you must--um, yes--make some -allowance for the--um--the natural inclination of elder boys to--um--to -be jealous of privileges. Smoking is, of course, an--um, yes--an offence -against school rules, but Mr. Lavery was perhaps--um, yes, perhaps--wise -in turning the--um--the blind eye, when the offender was near the top of -the school and where the offence was not flagrant. You must remember, -Mr. Speed, that Smallwood is eighteen years of age, not so very many -years younger than you are yourself. Besides, he is--um, yes, I think -so--captain of the First Fifteen, is he not?--and I--um--I assure -you--his degradation through you would do you an--um--an incalculable -amount of harm in the school. Don't make yourself unpopular, Mr. Speed. -I will send a note round the school, prefects--um, yes--included, -drawing--um--attention to the school rule against smoking. And I will -talk to Smallwood and the other boy--Biffin, isn't he?--um, -yes--privately. Privately, you see--a quiet friendly conversation -in--um--in private, can achieve wonders." - -Speed felt that he was being ever so gently snubbed. He left the Head's -study in a state of subdued fury, and his temper was not improved when -Helen seemed rather thoughtlessly inclined to take Smallwood's side. -"Don't get people into trouble, Kenneth," she pleaded. "I don't think -you ought to complain to father about them. After all, it isn't -frightfully wicked to smoke, is it? and I know they all used to do it in -Lavery's time. Why, I've seen them many a time when I've passed the -study-windows in the evenings." - -He stared at her for a few seconds, half indignantly, half -incredulously: then, as if on sudden impulse, he smiled and placed his -hands on her shoulders and looked searchingly into her eyes. -"Soft-hearted little kid!" he exclaimed, laughing a slightly forced -laugh. "All the same, I don't think you quite understand my position, -dear." - -"Tell me about it then," she said. - -Perhaps instinct forewarned him that if he went into details, either his -indignation would break its bounds or else she would make some further -casual and infuriating comment. From both possibilities he shrank -nervously. He said, with an affectation of nonchalance: "Oh, never mind -about it, dear. It will all come right in the end. Don't you worry your -pretty head about it. Kiss me!" - -She kissed him passionately. - - - - -III - - -But Speed was still, in the main, happy, despite occasional worries. -There was a wonderful half-sad charm about those fading autumn -afternoons, each one more eager to dissolve into the twilight, each one -more thickly spread with the brown and yellow leaves. To Speed, who -remembered so well the summer term, the winter term seemed full of -poignancies and regrets. And yet surrounding it all, this strange -atmosphere which for want of a better designation must be called simply -Millstead, was no less apparent; it pervaded all those autumn days with -a subtle essence which made Speed feel that this life that he was living -would be impossible to forget, no matter what the world held in store -for him. He could never forget the clammy, earthy smell of the rugger -pitch after a match in rain; the steam rising from the heavy scrum; the -grey clouds rolling over the sky; the patter of rain-drops on the -corrugated-iron roof of the pavilion stand. Nor could anything efface -the memory of those grey twilights when the afternoon games were -finished; the crowded lamp-lit tuck-shop, a phantasy of chromatic -blazers and pots of jam and muddy knees; the basements, cloudy with -steam from the bathrooms; the bleak shivering corridors along which the -Juniors scampered and envied the cosy warmth of the studies which might -one day be their own. Even the lock-ups after dark held some strange and -secret comfort: Burton and his huge keys and his noisy banging of the -door were part of the curious witchery of it all. - -And then at night-time when the sky was black as jet and the wind from -the fenlands howled round the tall chimney-stacks of Lavery's, Speed -could feel more than ever the bigness of this thing of which he had -become a part. The very days and nights took on characters and -individualities of their own; Speed could, if he had thought, have given -them all an identifying sound and colour: Monday, for instance, was -brown, deepening to crimson as night fell: he was always reminded of it -by the chord of E flat on the piano. That, of course, was perhaps no -more than half-imagined idiosyncrasy. But it was certain that the days -and nights were all shaped and conditioned by Millstead; and that they -were totally different from the days and nights that were elsewhere in -the world. On Sunday nights, for instance, Speed, observing a Lavery's -custom to which he saw no objection, read for an hour to the Junior -dormitory. The book was Bram Stoker's "Dracula." Speed had never heard -of the book until the Juniors informed him that Mr. Lavery had got -half-way through it during the previous term. After about three -successive readings Speed decided that the book was too horrible to be -read to Juniors just before bedtime, and accordingly refused to go on -with it. "I shall put it in the House library," he said, "so if any of -you wish to finish it you can do so in the daytime. And now we'll try -something else. Can anybody suggest anything?" Somebody mentioned -Stephen Leacock, and in future, Sunday evenings in the Junior dormitory -at Lavery's were punctuated by roars of laughter. All the same, the -sudden curtailment of _Dracula_ was, for a long while, a sore point with -the Juniors. - -On the two half-holidays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, Speed had three or -four of his House in to tea, taking them in rotation. This was a custom -which Lavery, seeing in it no more than an unnecessary increase in his -duties and obligations, had allowed to fall into disuse. Nor were the -majority of the boys keen on Speed's resumption of what had been, more -often than not, an irksome social infliction. They were, however, -gratified by the evident interest that he took in them, and most of -them, when they thankfully escaped from the ordeal back to their fellows -in the Common-Room, admitted that he was "quite a decent sort of chap." -Speed believed in the personal relationship between each boy and his -housemaster with an almost fanatical zeal. He found out what each boy -was interested in, and, without prying into anybody's private affairs, -contrived to establish himself as a personal factor in the life of the -House and not as a vague and slatternly deity such as Lavery had been. -Four o'clock therefore, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, saw Speed's tiny -drawing-room littered with cakes and toasted scones, and populated by -three or four nervous youngsters trying desperately to respond to -Speed's geniality and to balance cups and saucers and plates on their -knees without upsetting anything. - -It was part of Speed's dream of the ideal housemaster and his ideal -House that the housemaster's wife should fulfil a certain difficult and -scrupulously exact function in the scheme of things. She must not, of -course, attempt any motherly intimacies, or call people by their -Christian names, or do anything else that was silly or effusive; yet, on -the other hand, there was a sense in which her relationship with the -boys, especially the Juniors, might be less formal than her husband's. -And, somehow, Speed was forced to admit that Helen did not achieve this -extraordinarily delicate equipoise. She was, he came to the conclusion, -too young for it to be possible. When she grew older, no doubt she -would, in that particular respect, improve, but for the present she was, -perhaps naturally, nervous in the presence of the elder boys and apt to -treat the Juniors as if they were babies. Gradually she formed the habit -of going over to the Head's house for tea whenever Speed entertained the -boys in his room; it was an arrangement which, accomplished silently and -without definition. Speed felt to be rather a wise one. - - - - -IV - - -Clare Harrington had left Millstead. One breakfast time a letter came -from her with the Paris postmark. Out of the envelope tumbled a number -of small snapshots; Speed scanned the letter through and remarked, -summing up its contents roughly for Helen's benefit: "Oh, Clare's in -France. Been having rather a good time, I should imagine--touring about, -you know." - -Helen looked up suddenly. - -"I didn't know she wrote to _you_," she said. - -Speed answered, casually: "She doesn't, as a rule. But she knows I'm -interested in architecture--I expect that's why she sent me all these -snaps. There's one here of ..." he picked them up and glanced through -them ... "of Chartres Cathedral ... the belfry at Bruges ... some street -in Rouen.... They're rather good--have a look at them!" - -She examined them at first suspiciously, then with critical intensity. -And finally she handed them back to him without remark. - - - - -CHAPTER TWO - - -I - - -One dark dusk in November that was full of wind and fine rain Speed -stood up at his drawing-room window to pull down the blind. But before -doing so he gazed out at the dreary twilight and saw the bare trees -black and terrible beyond the quadrangle and the winking lights of -Milner's across the way. He had seen all of it so many times before, had -lived amongst it, so it now seemed to him, for ages; yet to-night there -was something in it that he had never seen before: a sort of sadness -that was abroad in the world. He heard the wind screaming through the -sodden trees and the branches creaking, the rain drops splashing on the -ivy underneath the window: it seemed to him that Millstead was full that -night of beautiful sorrow, and that it came over the dark quadrangle to -him with open arms, drenching all Lavery's in wild and forlorn pathos. - -He let the blind fall gently in front of his rapt eyes while the yellow -lamplight took on a richer, serener tinge. Those few weeks of occupation -had made the room quite different; its walls were now crowded with -prints and etchings; there was a sideboard, dull-glowing and huge for -the size of the room, on which silver and pewter and cut glass glinted -in tranquillity. Across one corner a baby-grand piano sprawled its sleek -body like a drowsily basking sea-lion, and opposite, in the wall at -right angles to the window, a large fire lulled itself into red -contentment with flames that had hardly breath for an instant's flicker. -But Speed left the window and stirred the coals into yellow riot that -lit his face with tingling, delicious half-tones. In the firelight he -seemed very tall and young-looking, with dark-brown, straggling hair, -brown, eager eyes that were almost black, and a queer, sad-lipped mouth -that looked for the present as if it would laugh and cry in the same -way. A leather-seated stool stood by the fireside, and he dragged it in -front of the open flames and sat with his chin resting solemnly on his -slim, long-fingered hands. - -It was a Wednesday and Helen had gone with her mother to visit some -friends in the town and would not be back until, perhaps, dinner-time. -It was almost four o'clock, and that hour, or at any rate, a few seconds -or minutes afterwards, three youngsters would be coming to tea. Their -names were Felling, Fyfield, and Graham. All were Juniors, as it -happened, and they would be frightfully nervous, and assuredly would not -know when to depart. - -Speed, liking them well enough, but feeling morbid for some reason or -other, pictured them plastering their hair down and scrambling into -their Sunday jackets in readiness for the ordeal. Poor little kids! he -thought, and he almost longed to rush into the cold dormitories where -they were preparing themselves and say: "Look here, Felling, Fyfield and -Graham--you needn't come to tea with me this afternoon--you're excused!" - -The hour of four boomed into the wind and rain outside. Speed looked -round to see if Burton had set the correct number of cups, saucers and -plates, and had obtained a sufficient quantity of cake and fancy pastry -from the tuck-shop. After all, he ought to offer them some compensation -for having to come to tea with him. - -Tap at the door. "Come in.... Ah, that you, Felling ... and you, -Graham.... I expect Fyfield will be here in a minute.... Sit down, will -you? ... Take that easy-chair, Felling.... Isn't it depressing -weather? ... I suppose you saw the game against Oversham? That last try of -Marshall's was a particularly fine one, I thought.... Come in.... Ah, -here you are, Fyfield: now we can get busy with the tea, can't we? ... -How's the Junior Debating Society going, Fyfield?" (Fyfield was -secretary of it.) "I must come round to one of your meetings, if you'll -promise to do exactly as you would if I weren't there.... Come in.... -You might bring me some more hot water, Burton.... By the way, Graham, -congratulations on last Saturday's match: I didn't see it, but I'm told -you did rather well." - -And so on. They were nice boys, all three of them, but they were -nervous. They answered in monosyllables or else embarked upon tortuous -sentences which became finally embedded in meringues and chocolate -_éclairs_. Felling, in particular, was overawed, for he was a new boy -that term and had only just emerged from six weeks in the sanatorium -with whooping-cough. Virtually, this was his first week at school. - -In the midst of the ponderously jocular, artificially sustained -conversation a knock came on the door. Speed shouted out "Come in," as -usual. The door opened and somebody came in. Speed could not see who it -was. He thought it must be a boy and turned back the red lampshade so -that the rays, nakedly yellow, glanced upwards. Then he saw. - -Clare! - - - - -II - - -She was dressed in a long flowing mackintosh which had something in it -reminiscent still of the swirl of wind and rain. She came forward very -simply, held out her hand to Speed, and said: "How are you, Mr. Speed? I -thought perhaps I should find Helen in." - -He said, overmastering his astonishment: "Helen's out somewhere with -Mrs. Ervine.... I'm quite well. How--how are you?" - -"Quite as well as you are," she said, laughing. "Tell Helen I'll call -round some other time, then, will you?--I mustn't interrupt your -tea-party." - -That made him say: "Indeed you're not doing that at all. Won't you stay -and have a cup of tea? Surely you won't go back into the rain so soon! -Let me introduce you--this is Felling ... Miss Harrington ... and this -is Fyfield ... and Graham...." - -What on earth had made him do that? He wondered, as he saw the boys -shaking hands with her so stiffly and nervously; what was possessing -him? Yet, accepting his invitation calmly and decisively, she sat down -in the midst of them as soon as she had taken off her wet mackintosh, -and appeared perfectly comfortable and at home. Speed busied himself in -obtaining a cup of tea for her, and by the time he had at last succeeded -he heard her talking in the most amazing way to Graham, and, which was -more, Graham was answering her as if they had known each other for -weeks. She had somehow found out that Graham's home was in Perth, and -they were indulging in an eager, if rather vacuous, exchange of -"Do--you--know's." Then quite suddenly she was managing to include -Fyfield in the conversation, and in a little while after that Felling -demonstrated both his present cordiality and his former -absent-mindedness by calling her "Mrs. Speed." She said, with perfect -calmness and without so much as the faintest suggestion in her voice of -any but the mere literal meaning of her words: "I'm not Mrs. Speed; I'm -Miss Harrington." - -Speed had hardly anything to do with the talk at all. He kept supplying -the participators with fuel in the way of cakes and _éclairs_, but he -was content to leave the rest of the management in Clare's hands. She -paid little attention to him, reserving most of her conversation for the -three boys. The chatter developed into a gossip that was easy, yet -perfectly respectful; Speed, putting in his word or two occasionally, -was astonished at the miracle that was being performed under his eyes. -Who could have believed that Felling, Fyfield and Graham could ever be -induced to talk like that in their housemaster's drawing-room? Of -course, a man couldn't do it at all, he thought, in self-defence: it was -a woman's miracle entirely. - -The school-clock began the chime of five, and five was the hour when it -was generally considered that housemasterly teas were due to finish. -Speed waited till ten minutes past and then interjected during a pause -In the conversation: "Well, I'm sorry you can't stay any longer...." - -The three boys rose, thankful for the hint although the affair had -turned out to be not quite such an ordeal as they had expected. After -hand-shaking with Clare they backed awkwardly out of the room followed -by Speed's brisk "Good-night." - -When they had gone Clare cried, laughing: "Oh, fancy getting rid of them -like that, Mr. Speed!--I should be insulted if you tried it on with me." - -Speed said: "It's the best way with boys, Miss Harrington. They don't -like to say they must go themselves, and they'd feel hurt if you told -them to go outright. Really they're immensely grateful for a plain -hint." - -Now that he was alone in the room with her he began to feel nervous in a -very peculiar and exciting way; as if something unimaginably strange -were surely going to happen. Outside, the wind and rain seemed suddenly -to grow loud, louder, terrifically loud; a strong whiff of air came down -the chimney and blew smoke into the room. All around, everywhere, there -were noises, clumping of feet on the floor above, chatter and shouting -in the corridors, the distant jangle of pianos in the practice-rooms; -and yet, in a deep significant sense, it was as if he and Clare were -quite alone amidst the wind and rain. He poked the fire with a gesture -that was almost irritable; the flames prodded into the red-tinted gloom -and revealed Clare perfectly serene and imperturbable. Evidently nothing -was going to happen at all. He looked at her with keen quickness, -thinking amazedly: And, by the way, what _could_ have happened? - -"How is Helen?" she asked. - -He answered: "Oh, she's quite well. Very well, in fact." - -"And I suppose you are, also." - -"I look it, don't I?" - -She said, after a pause: "And quite happy, of course." - -He started, kicked the fender with a clatter that, for the moment, -frightened him, and exclaimed: "Happy! Did you mean am _I_ happy?" - -"Yes." - -He did not answer immediately. He gave the question careful and -scrupulous weighing-up. He thought deliberately and calculatingly of -Helen, pictured her in his mind, saw her sitting opposite to him in the -chair where Felling had sat, saw her and her hair lit with the glow of -the fire, her blue eyes sparkling; then, for a while, he listened to -her, heard her rich, sombre whisper piercing the gloom; lastly, as if -sight and hearing were not evidence enough, he brought her close to him, -so that his hands could touch her. He said then, with deep certainty: -"Yes, I'm happy." - -"That's fine," she replied. "Now tell me how you're getting on with -Lavery's?" - -He chatted to her for a while about the House, communicating to her -something of his enthusiasm but not touching upon any of his -difficulties. Then he asked her what she had been doing in France. She -replied: "Combining business with pleasure." - -"How?" - -"Well, you see, first of all I bought back from my father's publishers -all transcription rights. (They'd never used them themselves). Then, -with the help of a French friend, I translated one or two of the -Helping-Hand-Books into French and placed them with a Paris agent. -Business you see. He disposed of them fairly, advantageously, and on -part of the proceeds I treated myself to a holiday. I had an excellent -time. Now I've come back to Millstead to translate a few more of my -father's books." - -"But you're continuing to run the shop, I suppose?" - -"I've brought over my French friend to do that for me. She's a clever -girl with plenty of brains and no money. She speaks English perfectly. -In the daytime she'll do most of the shop-work for me and she'll always -be handy to help me with translations. You must meet her--you'll find -her most outrageously un-English." - -"What do you mean?" - -"I mean that she's not sentimental." - -By the time that he had digested that a tap came at the door. - -"That's Helen!" said Speed, joyously, recognising the quiet double rap. -He felt delightfully eager to see the meeting of the two friends. Helen -entered. Clare rose. Speed cried, like an excited youngster: "Helen, -we've got a visitor. Who do you think it is?" - -Helen replied, puzzled: "I don't know. Tell me." - -"Clare!" he cried, with boisterous enthusiasm. "It's Clare!" - -Then he remembered that he had never called her Clare before; always it -had been Miss Harrington. And yet the name had come so easily and -effortlessly to his tongue! - -Helen gasped: "Clare! Is it you, Clare?" - -And Clare advanced through the shadows and kissed Helen very simply and -quietly. Again Speed felt that strange, presaging emotion of something -about to happen, of some train being laid for the future. The rain was -now a torrent, and the wind a great gale shrieking across the fenlands. - -Helen said: "I'm drenched with rain--let me take my coat off." After a -short pause she added: "Why didn't you let me know you were coming, -Clare? If you had I could have stayed in for you." - - - - -III - - -Speed was always inclined to drop out of conversations that were -proceeding well enough without him. In a few moments Helen and Clare -were chatting together exactly as if he had not been present. He did not -mind; he was rather glad, in fact, because it relieved him from the task -of mastering his nervousness. He felt too, what he always felt when -Helen was talking to another woman; a feeling that women as a sex were -hostile to men, and that when they were together there was a sort of -secret freemasonry between them which enforced a rigid and almost -contemptuous attitude towards the other sex. Nothing in Clare's manner -encouraged this belief, but Helen's side of the conversation was a -distinct suggestion of it. Not that anything said or discussed was -inimical to him; merely that whenever the conversation came near to a -point at which he might naturally have begun to take part in it, Helen -seemed somehow to get hold of it by the neck and pull it out of his -reach. And Clare was quite impassive, allowing Helen to do just what she -liked. These were Speed's perhaps exaggerated impressions as he sat very -uncomfortably in the armchair, almost frightened to move lest movement -on his part might be wrongly interpreted as irritation, fear, or -boredom. When he felt uncomfortable his discomfort was always added to -by a usually groundless fear that other people were noticing it and -speculating as to its reason. - -At six the bell rang for school tea in the dining-hall, and this was his -week to superintend that function. Most mercifully then he was permitted -to leave the red-glowing drawing-room and scamper across the rain-swept -quadrangle. "Sorry I must leave you," he said, hastily, rising from his -chair. Helen said, as if her confirmation were essential before his -words could be believed: "It's his week for reading grace, you know." - -"And after that I've got some youngsters with piano-lessons," he said, -snatching up his gown and, in his nervousness, putting it on wrong side -out. "So I'll say good-bye, Miss Harrington." - -He shook hands with her and escaped into the cold rain. It was over a -hundred yards to the dining-hall, and with the rain slanting down in -torrential gusts he was almost drenched during the few seconds' run. -Somehow, the bare, bleak dining-hall, draughty and fireless and lit with -flaring gas-jets, seemed to him exhilaratingly cheerful as he gazed down -upon it from the Master's rostrum at the end. He leaned his arms over -the edge of the lectern, watching the boys as they streamed in noisily, -with muddy boots and turned-up collars and wet ruddy cheeks. The long -tables, loaded with smeared jam-pots and towers of bread-slices and tins -of fruit jaggedly opened, seemed, in their teeming, careless ugliness, -immensely real and joyous: there was a simplicity too, an almost -mathematical simplicity, in the photographs of all the rugger fifteens -and cricket and hockey elevens that adorned the green-distempered walls. -The photographs were complete for the last thirty-eight years; therefore -there would be four hundred and eighteen plus four hundred and eighteen -plus five hundred and seventy separate faces upon the walls. Total: one -thousand four hundred and six.... Speed never thought of it except when -he stood on the rostrum waiting to read grace, and as he was not good at -mental arithmetic he always had a misgiving that he had calculated -wrongly, and so would go over it again multiplying with his brain while -his eyes were on the clock. And this evening his mind, once enslaved by -the numerical fascination of the photographs, obtained no release until -a stamping of feet at the far end of the hall awakened him to the -realisation that it was time he said grace. He had been dreaming. Silly -of him to stand there on the rostrum openly and obviously dreaming -before the eyes of all Millstead! He blushed slightly, smiled more -slightly still, and gave the knob of the hand-bell a vigorous punch. -Clatter of forms and shuffling of feet as all Millstead rose.... "For -these and all His mercies the Lord's name we praise...." About the -utterance of the word "mercies," conversation, prohibited before grace, -began to murmur from one end of the room to the other; the final -"praise," hardly audible even to Speed himself, was engulfed in a mighty -swelling of hundreds of unleashed voices, clumping of feet, clattering -of forms, banging of plates, shrill appeals for one thing and another, -and general pandemonium amidst which, Speed, picking his way amongst the -groups of servants, made his escape. - -How strange was Millstead to-night, he thought, as he made his way along -the covered cloisters to the music-rooms. The rain had slackened -somewhat, but the wind was still high and shrieking; the floor of the -cloisters, wet from hundreds of muddy boots, shone greasily in the rays -of the wind-blown lamps. Over the darkness of the quadrangle he could -see Lavery's rising like a tall cliff at the other side of an ocean; and -the dull red square that was the window of his own drawing-room. Had -Clare gone?--Clare! It was unfortunate, perhaps, that he had called her -Clare in his excitement; unfortunate because she might think he had done -it deliberately with a view to deepening the nature of their friendship. -That was his only reason for thinking it unfortunate. - -Down in the dark vaults beneath the Big Hall, wherein the piano-rooms -were situated, he found Porritt Secundus waiting for him. Porritt was in -Lavery's, and therefore Speed was more than ordinarily interested in -him. - -"Do you have to miss your tea in order to have a lesson at this hour?" -Speed asked, putting his hand in a friendly way on Porritt's shoulder, -as he guided him through the gloomy corridor into the single room where -a small light was showing. - -Porritt replied: "I didn't to-day, sir. Smallwood asked me to tea with -him." - -Speed's hand dropped from Porritt's shoulder as if it had been shot -away. His imagination, fanned into sudden perceptivity, detected in the -boy's voice a touch of--of what? Impertinence? Hardly, and yet surely a -boy could be impertinent without saying anything that was in itself -impertinent.... Porritt had been to tea with Smallwood. And Smallwood -was Speed's inveterate enemy, as the latter well knew. Was it possible -that Smallwood was adopting a methodical policy of setting the Juniors -against him? Possibilities invaded Speed's mind in a scorching torrent. -Moments afterwards, when he had regained composure, it occurred to him -that it was the habit of prefects to invite their Juniors to tea -occasionally, and that it was perfectly natural that Porritt, so -recently the guest of the Olympian Smallwood, should be eager to tell -people about it. - - - - -IV - - -That night, sitting by the fire before bedtime, Helen said: "Was Clare -here a long time before I came in?" - -Speed answered: "Not very long. She came while I was having three -Juniors to tea, and they stayed until after five.... After they'd gone -she told me about her holiday in France." - -"She's been bargaining over her father's books in Paris, so she says." - -"Well, not exactly that. You see, Mr. Harrington's publishers never -arranged for his books to be translated, so she bought the rights off -them so as to be able to arrange it herself." - -"I think it's rather mean to go haggling about that sort of thing after -the man's dead, don't you? After all, if he'd wanted them to be -translated, surely he'd have done it himself while he was alive--don't -you think so? Clare seems to be out to make as much money as she can -without any thought about what would have been her father's wishes." - -"I confess," replied Speed, slowly, "that it never struck me in that -light. Harrington had about as much business in him as a two-year-old, -and if he let himself be swindled right and left, surely that's no -reason why his daughter should continue in the same way. Besides, she -hasn't much money and it couldn't have been her father's wish that she -should neglect chances of getting some." - -"She has the shop." - -"It can't be very profitable." - -"I daresay it won't allow her to take holidays abroad, but that's not to -say it won't give her a decent living." - -"Of course," said Speed, mildly, "I really don't know anything about her -private affairs. You may be right in everything you say.... It's nearly -eleven. Shall we go to bed?" - -"Soon," she said, broodingly, gazing into the fire. She was silent for a -moment and then said, slowly and deliberately: "Kenneth." - -"Yes, Helen?" - -"Do you know--I--I--I don't think I--I quite like Clare--as much as I -used to." - -"You don't, Helen? Why not?" - -"I don't know why not. But it's true.... She--she makes me feel -frightened--somehow. I hope she doesn't come here often. I--I don't -think I shall ask her to. Do you--do you mind?" - -"Mind, Helen? Why should I mind? If she frightens you she certainly -shan't come again." He added, with a fierceness which, somehow, did not -strike him as absurd: "I won't let her. Helen--_dear_ Helen, you're -unhappy about something--tell me all about it!" - -She cried vehemently: "Nothing--nothing--nothing!--Kenneth, I want to -learn things--will you teach me?--I'm a ridiculously ignorant person, -Kenneth, and some day I shall make you feel ashamed of me if I don't -learn a few things more. _Will_ you teach me?" - -"My darling. I'll teach you everything in the world. What shall we begin -with?" - -"Geography. I was looking through some of the exercise-books you had to -mark. Do you know, I don't know anything about exports and imports?" - -"Neither did I until I had them to teach." - -"And you'll teach me?" - -"Yes. I'll teach you anything you want to learn. But I don't think we'll -have our first lesson until to-morrow. Bedtime now, Helen." - -She flung her arms round his neck passionately, offered her lips to -his almost with abandonment, and cried, in the low, thrilling -voice that seemed so full of unspoken dreads and secrecies: "Oh, -Kenneth--Kenneth--you _do_ love me, don't you? You aren't tired of me? -You aren't even a little bit dissatisfied, are you?" - -He took her in his arms and kissed her more passionately than he had -ever done before. It seemed to him then that he did love her, more -deeply than anybody had loved anybody else since the world began, and -that, so far from his being the least bit dissatisfied with her, she was -still guiding him into fresh avenues of unexplored delight. She was the -loveliest and most delicate thing in the world. - - - - -V - - -The great event of the winter term was the concert in aid of the local -hospitals. It had taken place so many years in succession that it had -become institutional and thoroughly enmeshed in Millstead tradition. It -was held during the last week of the term in the Big Hall; the boys paid -half-a-crown each for admission (the sum was included in their terminal -bills), and outsiders, for whom there was a limited amount of -accommodation, five shillings. The sum was artfully designed to exclude -shop assistants and such-like from a function which was intended to be, -in the strictest sense, exclusive. Millstead, on this solemn annual -occasion, arrayed itself for its own pleasure and satisfaction; took a -look at itself, so to say, in order to reassure itself that another year -of social perturbation had mercifully left it entire. And by Millstead -is meant, in the first instance, the School. The Masters, for once, -discarded their gowns and mortar-boards and appeared in resplendent -evening-suits which, in some cases, were not used at all during the rest -of the year. Masters, retired and of immense age, rumbled up to the main -gateway in funereal four-wheelers and tottered to their seats beneath -the curious eyes of an age that knew them not. The wives of non-resident -Masters, like deep-sea fishes that rarely come to the surface, blinked -their pleased astonishment at finding everything, apparently, different -from what they had been led to expect. And certain half-mythical -inhabitants of the neighbourhood, doctors and colonels and captains and -landed gentry, parked themselves in the few front rows like curious -social specimens on exhibition. In every way the winter term concert at -Millstead was a great affair, rivalling in splendour even the -concentrated festivities of Speech Day. - -Speed, in virtue of his position as music-master, found himself involved -in the scurry and turmoil of preparation. This concert, he decided, with -his customary enthusiasm, should be the best one that Millstead had had -for many a year. He would have introduced into it all sorts of -innovations had he not found, very soon after he began to try, that -mysteriously rigid traditions stood in the way. He was compelled, for -instance, to open with the Millstead School Song. Now the Millstead -School Song had been likened by a witty though irreverent Master to the -funeral-march of a smoked haddock. It began with a ferocious yell of -"_Haec olim revocare_" and continued through yards of uneuphonious Latin -into a remorseless _clump-clump_ of a chorus. Speed believed that, even -supposing the words were sacrosanct, that ought to be no reason for the -tune to be so, and suggested to the Head that some reputable modern -composer should be commissioned to write one. The Head, of course, would -not agree. "The tune, Mr. Speed, has--um, yes--associations. As a -newcomer you cannot be expected to feel them, but, believe me, they -do--um, yes--they do most certainly exist. An old foundation, Mr. Speed, -and if you take away from us our--um--traditions, then you--um--take -away that which not enriches you and makes us, urn, yes--poor indeed." -And, with a glint of satisfaction at having made use of a quotation -rather aptly, the Head indicated that Speed must not depart from the -recognised routine. - -Even without innovations, however, the concert demanded a great deal of -practising and rehearsal, and in this Speed had the rather hazy -co-operation of Raggs, the visiting organist. He it was who told Speed -exactly what items must, on no account, be omitted; and who further -informed him of items which must on no account be included; these latter -consisted chiefly of things which Speed suggested himself. It was -finally arranged, however, and the programme submitted to and passed by -the Head: there was to be a pianoforte solo, a trio for piano, violin -and 'cello, a good, resounding song by the choir, a quartet singing -Christmas carols, and one or two "suitable" songs from operas. The -performers, where possible, were to be boys of the school, but there -were precedents for drawing on the services of outsiders when necessary. -Thus when it was found that the school orchestra lacked first violins, -Raggs gave Speed the names of several ladies and gentlemen in the town -who had on former occasions lent their services in this capacity. And -among these names was that of Miss Clare Harrington. - -Speed, making his preparations about the middle of November, was in a -dilemma with this list of names. He knew that, for some reason or other, -Helen did not care for Clare's company, and that if Clare were to take -part, not only in the concert itself, but in all the preceding -rehearsals, she would be brought almost inevitably into frequent contact -with Helen. He thought also that if he canvassed all the other people -first, Clare might, if she came to hear of it, think that he had treated -her spitefully. In the end he solved the difficulty by throwing the -burden of selection on to Raggs and undertaking in exchange some vastly -more onerous task that Raggs was anxious to get rid of. A few days later -Raggs accosted Speed in the cloisters and said: "I've got you a few -first violins. Here's their names and addresses on this card. They'll -turn up to the next rehearsal if you'll send them word." - -When Raggs had shambled away. Speed looted curiously at the card which -he had pushed into his hand. Scanning down the list, scribbled in Raggs' -most illegible pencilled script, he found himself suddenly conscious of -pleasure, slight yet strangely distinct; something that made him go on -his way whistling a tune. Clare's name was on the list. - - - - -VI - - -Those crowded winter nights of rehearsals for the concert were full of -incident for Speed. As soon as the school had finished preparation in -the Big Hall, the piano was uncovered and pushed into the middle of the -platform; the violinists and 'cellists began to tune up; the choir -assembled with much noise and a disposition to regard rehearsals as a -boisterous form of entertainment; lastly, the visitors from the town -appeared, adapting themselves condescendingly to the rollicking -atmosphere. - -Speed discovered Clare to be a rather good violinist. She played quietly -and accurately, with an absence (rare in good violinists) of superfluous -emotion. Once she said to Speed, referring to one of the other imported -violinists: "Listen! This Mozart's only a decorative frieze, and that -man's playing it as if it were the whole gateway to the temple of Eros." -Speed, who liked architectural similes himself, nodded appreciatively. -Clare went on: "I always want to laugh at emotion in the wrong place. -Violinists who are too fond of the mute, for instance." Speed said, -laughing: "Yes, and organists who are too fond of the _vox humana_." To -which Clare added: "And don't forget to mention the audiences that are -too fond of both. It's their fault principally." - -At ten o'clock, when rehearsals were over, Speed accompanied Clare home -to the shop in High Street. There was something in those walks which -crept over him like a slow fascination, so that after the first few -occasions he found himself sitting at the piano during the rehearsal -with everything in his mind subordinate to the tingling anticipation of -the stroll afterwards. When they left the Big Hall and descended the -steps into the cool dusk of the cloisters, his spirits rose as with -wine; and when from the cloisters they turned into the crisp-cold night, -crunching softly over the frosted quadrangle and shivering joyously in -the first keen lash of the wind, he could have scampered for sheer -happiness like a schoolboy granted an unexpected holiday. Sometimes the -moon was white on roofs and roadways; sometimes the sky was densely -black; sometimes it was raining and Millstead High Street was no more -than a vista of pavements with the yellow lamplight shining on the pools -in them: once, at least, it was snowing soft, dancing flakes that -covered the ground inches deep as they walked. But whatever the world -was like on those evenings on which Speed accompanied Clare, one thing -was common to them all: an atmosphere of robust companionship, -impervious to all things else. The gales that romped and frolicked over -the fenlands were no more vigorous and coldly sweet than something that -romped and frolicked in Speed's inmost soul. - -Once they were discussing the things that they hated most of all. "I -hate myself more than anything else--sometimes," said Speed. - -Clare said: "And I hate people who think that a thing's bound to be -sordid because it's real: people who think a thing's beautiful merely -because it's hazy and doesn't mean anything. I'm afraid I hate -Mendelssohn." - -Speed said: "Mendelssohn? Why, that was what Helen used to be keen on, -wasn't it?--last term, don't you remember?" - -A curious silence supervened. - -Clare said, after a pause: "Yes, I believe it was." - - - - -VII - - -Helen's attitude towards Clare at this time was strangely at variance -with her former one. As soon as she learned that Clare was playing in -the concert she wrote to her and told her always to come into Lavery's -before the rehearsal began. "It will be nice seeing you so often, -Clare," she wrote, "and you needn't worry about getting back in the -evenings because Kenneth will always see you home." - -Speed said, when he heard of Helen's invitation: "But I thought you -didn't like Clare, Helen?" - -"Oh, I was silly," she answered. "I do like her, really. And besides, we -must be hospitable. You'll see her back in the evenings, won't you?" - -"I daresay I _can_ do," he said. - -Then, suddenly laughing aloud, he caught her into his arms and kissed -her. "I'm so glad it's all right again, Helen. I don't like my little -Helen to throw away her old friends. It isn't like her. You see how -happy we shall all be, now that we're friendly again with Clare." - -"I know," she said. - -"I believe you are the most lovable and loving little girl in the world -except--" he frowned at her playfully--"when the devil persuades you -that you don't like people. Some day he'll persuade you that you don't -like me." - -"He won't," she said. - -"I hope he won't." - -She seemed to him then more than ever a child, a child whose winsomeness -was alloyed with quaint and baffling caprice. He loved her, too, very -gladly and affectionately; and he knew then, quite clearly because the -phase was past that her announced dislike of Clare had made him love her -not quite so much. But now all was happy and unruffled again, so what -did it matter? - - - - -CHAPTER THREE - - -I - - -Smallwood was one of a type more commonly found at a university than at -a public school; in fact it was due to his decision not to go to the -former that he had stayed so long at Millstead. He was nineteen years -old, and when he left he would enter his father's office in the City. -The disciplinary problems of dealing with him and others of his type -bristled with awkwardness, especially for a Master so young as Speed; -the difficulty was enhanced by the fact that Smallwood, having stayed at -Millstead long enough to achieve all athletic distinctions merely by -inevitability, was a power in the school of considerable magnitude. -Personally, he was popular; he was in no sense a bully; he was a kindly -and certainly not too strict prefect; his disposition was friendly and -easy-going. But for the unfortunate clash at the beginning of the term -Speed might have found in him a powerful ally instead of a sinister -enemy. One quality Smallwood possessed above all others--vanity; and -Speed, having affronted that vanity, could count on a more virulent -enmity than Smallwood's lackadaisical temperament was ordinarily capable -of. - -The error lay, of course, in the system which allowed Smallwood to stay -at Millstead so long. Smallwood at nineteen was distinctly and quite -naturally a man, not a boy; and whatever in him seemed unnatural was -forced on him by the Millstead atmosphere. There was nothing at all -surprising in his study-walls being covered with photographs of women -and amorous prints obtained from French magazines. Nor was it surprising -that he was that very usual combination--the athlete and the dandy, that -his bathroom was a boudoir of pastes and oils and cosmetics, and that, -with his natural good looks, he should have the reputation of being a -lady-killer. Compelled by the restraints of Millstead life to a -resignation of this branch of his activities during term-time, he found -partial solace in winking at the less unattractive of the -school-servants (who, it was reported, were chosen by the matron on the -score of ugliness), and in relating to his friends lurid stories of his -adventures in London during the vacations. He had had, for a -nineteen-year-old, the most amazing experiences, and sometimes the more -innocuous of these percolated, by heaven knows what devious channels, to -the amused ears of the Masters' Common-Room. The Masters as a whole, it -should be noted, liked Smallwood, because, with a little flattery and -smoothing-down, they could always cajole him into agreement with them. -Titivate his vanity and he was Samson shorn of his locks. - -Now the masters, for various reasons, did not like Speed so much in his -second term as they had done in his first. Like all bodies of averagely -tolerant men they tended to be kindly to newcomers, and Speed, young, -quiet, modest, and rather attractively nervous, had won more of their -hearts than some of them afterwards cared to remember. The fact that his -father was a titled man and that Speed never talked about it, was bound -to impress a group of men who, by the unalterable circumstances of their -lives, were compelled to spend a large portion of their time in -cultivating an attitude of snobbery. But in his second term Speed found -them not so friendly. That was to be expected in any case, for while -much may be forgiven a man during his first probationary term, his -second is one in which he must prepare to be judged by stricter -standards. Besides the normal hardening of judgment, Speed was affected -by another even more serious circumstance. He had committed the -unpardonable offence of being too successful. Secretly, more than half -the staff were acutely jealous of him. Even those who were entirely -ineligible for the post at Lavery's, and would not have accepted it if -it had been offered them, were yet conscious of some subtle personal -chagrin in seeing Speed, after his first term, step into a place of such -power and dignity. They had the feeling that the whole business had been -done discreditably behind their backs, although, of course, the Masters -had no right, either virtual or technical, to be consulted in the matter -of appointments. Yet when they arrived at Millstead at the beginning of -the term and learned that Speed, their junior by ever so many years, had -married the Head's daughter during the vacation and had been forthwith -appointed to the mastership of Lavery's, they could not forbear an -instant sensation of ruefulness which developed later into more or less -open antagonism. Not all the talk about the desirability of young -married housemasters could dispel that curious feeling of having been -slighted. - -Secretly, no doubt, they hoped that Lavery's would be too much for -Speed. And on the occasion of the row between Speed and Smallwood they -sympathised with the latter, regarding him as the victim of Speed's -monstrous and aggressive self-assertion. The circumstance that Speed -took few meals now in the Masters' Common-Room prevented the legend of -his self-assertiveness from being effectively smashed; as term -progressed and as Speed's eager and pertinacious enthusiasm about the -concert became apparent, the legend rather grew than diminished. -Clanwell, alone, perhaps, of all the staff, still thought of Speed -without feelings of jealousy, and that was rather because he regarded -him as one of his elder boys, to be looked after and advised when -necessary. He formed the habit of inviting Speed into his room to coffee -once or twice a week, and on these occasions he gave the young man many -hints drawn from his full-blooded, though rather facile, philosophy. - -At the conclusion of one of these evening confabulations he caught hold -of Speed's arm as the latter was going out by the door and said: "I say, -Speed,--just before you go--there's a little matter I've been wondering -all night whether I'd mention to you or not. I hope you won't be -offended. I'm the last man to go round making trouble or telling tales, -and I'm aware that I'm risking your friendship if I say what I have in -mind." - -"You won't do that," said Speed. "Say what you want to say." He stared -at Clanwell nervously, for at a call such as this a cloud of vague -apprehensions would swarm round and over him, filling the future with -dark dreads. - -"It's about your wife," said Clanwell. "I'm not going to say much. It -isn't anything to worry about, I daresay. Perhaps it doesn't justify my -mentioning it to you. Your wife..." - -"Well?" - -"I should--keep an eye on her, if I were you. She's young, Speed, -remember. She's--" - -"What do you mean--keep an eye on her? What should I keep an eye on her -for?" - -"I told you, Speed, I wasn't going to say much. You mustn't imagine -yourself on the verge of a scandal--I don't suppose there's anything -really the matter at all. Only, as I was saying, she's young, and -she--she's apt to do unwise things. Once or twice lately, while you've -been out, she's had Smallwood in to tea." - -"Smallwood!--Alone?" - -"Yes, alone." - -Speed blushed furiously and was silent. A sudden new feeling, which he -diagnosed as jealousy, swept across him; followed by a further series of -feelings which were no more than various forms of annoyance and -exacerbation. He clenched his fists and gave a slight shrug of his -shoulders. - -"How do you know all this?" he queried, in the staccato bark that was so -accurate a register of his temper. - -"Smallwood isn't the fellow to keep such an affair secret," replied -Clanwell. "But don't, Speed, go and do anything rash. If I were you I -should go back and--" - -"I shan't do anything rash," interrupted Speed, curtly. "You needn't -worry. Good-night.... I suppose I ought to thank you for your kindness -in telling me what you have." - -When he had gone he regretted that final remark. It was, he decided, -uselessly and pointlessly cynical. - - - - -II - - -It was a pity, perhaps, that in his present mood he went straight back -to Lavery's and to Helen. He found her sitting, as usual, by the fire -when he entered; he made no remark, but came and sat opposite to her. -Neither of them spoke for a few moments. That was not unusual for them, -for Helen had frequent fits of taciturnity, and Speed, becoming familiar -with them, found himself adopting similar habits. After, however, a -short space of silence, he broke it by saying: "Helen, do you mind if we -have a serious talk for a little while." - -She looked up and said, quietly: "Where have you been?" - -"Clanwell's," he replied, and as soon as he had done so he realised that -she would easily guess who had informed him. A pity that he had answered -her so readily. - -"What do you want to ask me?" - -He said, rather loudly, as always when he was nervous: "Helen, I'm going -to be quite straightforward. No beating about the bush, you -understand?--You've had Smallwood in here to tea lately, while I've been -out." - -"Well?" Her voice, irritatingly soft, just as his own was irritatingly -loud, contained a mixture of surprise and mockery. "And what if I have?" - -He gripped the arms of the wicker-chair with his fists, causing a -creaking sound that seemed additionally to discompose him. "Helen, you -can't do it, that's all. You mustn't. It won't do.... It..." - -Suddenly she was talking at him, slowly and softly at first, then in a -rising, gathering, tempestuous torrent; her eyes, lit by the firelight, -blazed through the tears in them. "Can't I? Mustn't I? You say it won't -do? You can go out whenever and wherever you like, you can go out to -Clanwell's in the evening, you can walk down to the town with Clare, you -can have anybody you like in to tea, you choose your own friends, you -live your own life--and then you actually dare to tell me I can't!--What -is it to you if I make a friend of Smallwood?--Haven't I the right to -make friends without your permission?--Haven't I the right to entertain -_my_ friends in here as much as you have the right to entertain _your_ -friends?--Kenneth, you think I'm a child, you call me a child, you treat -me as a child. _That's_ what won't do. I'm a woman and I won't be -domineered over. So now you know it." - -Her passion made him suddenly icily cool; he was no longer the least bit -nervous. He perceived, with calm intuition, that this was going to be -their first quarrel. - -"In the first place," he began quietly, "you must be fair to me. Surely, -it is not extraordinary that I should go up to see Clanwell once or -twice during the week. He's a colleague and a friend. Secondly, walking -down into the town to see Clare home after rehearsals is a matter of -common politeness, which you, I think, asked me particularly to do. And -as for asking people in to tea, you have, as you say, as free a choice -in that as I have, except when you do something absolutely unwise. -Helen, I'm serious. Don't insist on this argument becoming a quarrel. If -it does, it will be our first quarrel, remember." - -"You think you can move me by talking like that!" - -"My dear, I think nothing of the sort. I simply do not want to quarrel. -I want you to see my point of view, and I'm equally anxious to see -yours. With regard to this Smallwood business, you must, if you think a -little, realise that in a place like Millstead you can't behave -absolutely without regard for conventions. Smallwood, remember, is -nearly your own age. You see what I mean?" - -"You mean that I'm not to be trusted with any man nearly my own age?" - -"No, I don't mean that. The thought that there could be anything in the -least discreditable in the friendship between Smallwood and you never -once crossed my mind. I know, of course, that it is perfectly honest and -above-board. Don't please, put my attitude down to mere jealousy. I'm -not in the least jealous." - -What surprised him more than anything else in this amazing chain of -circumstances, was that he was sitting there talking to her so calmly -and deliberately, almost as if he were arguing an abstruse point in a -court of law! Of this new cold self that was suddenly to the front he -had had no former experience. And certainly it was true to say that at -that moment there was not in him an atom of jealousy. - -She seemed to shrivel up beneath the coldness of his argument. She said, -doggedly: "I'm not going to give way, Kenneth." - -They both looked at each other then, quite calmly and subconsciously a -little awed, as if they could see suddenly the brink on which they were -standing. - -"Helen, I don't want to domineer over you at all. I want you to be as -free to do what you like as I am. But there are some things, which, for -my sake and for the sake of the position I hold here, you ought not to -do. And having Smallwood here alone when I am away is one of those -things." - -"I don't agree. I have as much right to make a friend of Smallwood as -you have to make a friend of--say Clare!" - -The mention of Clare shifted him swiftly out of his cool, calculating -mood and back into the mood which had possessed him when he first came -into the room. "Not at all," he replied, sharply. "The cases are totally -different. Smallwood is a boy--a boy in my House. That makes all the -difference." - -"I don't see that it makes any difference." - -"Good heavens, Helen!--You don't see? Don't you realise the sort of talk -that is getting about? Doesn't it occur to you that Smallwood will -chatter about this all over the school and make out that he's conducting -a clandestine flirtation with you? Don't you see how it will undermine -all the discipline of the House--will make people laugh at me when my -back's turned--will--" - -"And I'm to give up my freedom just to stop people from laughing at you, -am I?" - -"Helen, _why_ can't you see my point of view? Would you like to see me a -failure at Lavery's? Wouldn't you feel hurt to hear everybody sniggering -about me?" - -"I should feel hurt to think that you could only succeed at Lavery's by -taking away my freedom." - -"Helen, marriage isn't freedom. It's partnership. I can't do what I -like. Neither can you." - -"I can try, though." - -"Yes, and you can succeed in making my life at Millstead unendurable." - -She cried fiercely: "I won't talk about it any longer, Kenneth. We don't -agree and apparently we shan't, however long we argue. I still think -I've a right to ask Smallwood in to tea if I want to." - -"And I still think you haven't." - -"Very well, then--" with a laugh--"that's a deadlock, isn't it?" - -He stared at the fire silently for some moments, then rose, and came to -the back of her chair. Something in her attitude seemed to him -blindingly, achingly pathetic; the tears rushed to his eyes; he felt he -had been cruel to her. One part of him urged him to have pity on her, -not to let her suffer, to give way, at all costs, rather than bring -shadows over her life; to appeal, passionately and perhaps -sentimentally, that she would, for his sake, if she loved him, make his -task at Lavery's no harder than it need be. The other part of him said: -No, you have said what is perfectly fair and true; you have nothing at -all to apologise for. If you apologise you will only weaken your -position for ever afterwards. - -In the end the two conflicting parts of him effected a compromise. He -said, good-humouredly, almost gaily, to her: "Yes, Helen, I'm afraid it -is a deadlock. But that's no reason why it should be a quarrel. After -all, we ought to be able to disagree without quarrelling. Now, let's -allow the matter to drop, eh? Eh, Helen? Smile at me, Helen!" - -But instead of smiling, she burst into sudden passionate sobbing. Her -head dropped heavily into her hands and all her hair, loosened by the -fall, dispersed itself over her hands and cheeks in an attitude of -terrific despair. On Speed the effect of it was as that of a knife -cutting him in two. He could not bear to see her misery, evoked by -something said or done, however justifiably, by him; pity swelled over -him in a warm, aching tide; he stooped to her and put a hand -hesitatingly on her shoulder. He was almost afraid to touch her, and -when, at the first sensation of his hand, she drew away hurriedly, he -crept back also as if he were terrified by her. Then gradually he came -near her again and told her, with his emotion making his voice gruff, -that he was sorry. He had treated her unkindly and oh--he was _so_ -sorry. He could not bear to see her cry. It hurt him.... Dear, darling -Helen, would she forgive him? If she would only forgive him she could -have Smallwood in to tea every day if she wished, and damn what anybody -said about it! Helen, Helen.... - -Yet the other part of him, submerged, perhaps, but by no means silent, -still urged: You haven't treated her unkindly, and you know you haven't. -You have nothing to apologise for at all. And if she does keep on -inviting Smallwood in you'll have the same row with her again, sooner or -later. - -"Helen, _dear_ Helen--_do_ answer me!--Don't cry like that--I can't bear -it!--Answer me, Helen, answer me!" - -Then she raised her head and put her arms out to him and kissed him with -fierce passion, so that she almost hurt his neck. Even then she did not, -for a moment, answer, but he did not mind, because he knew now that she -had forgiven him. And strangely enough, in that moment of passionate -embrace, there returned to him a feeling of crude, rudimentary jealousy; -he felt that for the future he would, as Clanwell had advised him, have -to keep an eye on her to make sure that none of this high, mountainous -love escaped from within the four walls of his own house. He felt -suddenly greedy, physically greedy; the thought, even instantly -contradicted, of half-amorous episodes between her and Smallwood -affected him with an insurgent bitterness which made the future heavy -with foreboding. - -She whispered to him that she had been very silly and that she wouldn't -have Smallwood in again if he wished her not to. - -Even amidst his joy at her submission, the word "silly" struck him as an -absurdly inadequate word to apply to her attitude. - -He said, deliberately against his will: "Helen, darling, it was I who -was silly. Have Smallwood in as much as you like. I don't want to -interfere with your happiness." - -He expected her then to protest that she had no real desire to have -Smallwood in, and when she failed to protest, he was disappointed. The -fear came to him that perhaps Smallwood did attract her, being so -good-looking, and that his granting her full permission to see him would -give that attraction a chance to develop. Jealousy once again stormed at -him. - -But how sweet the reconciliation, after all! For concentrated loveliness -nothing in his life could equal the magic of that first hour with her -after she had ceased crying. It was moonlight outside and about midnight -they leaned for a moment out of the window with the icy wind stinging -their cheeks. Millstead asleep in the pallor, took on the semblance of -his own mood and seemed tremulous with delight. Somewhere, too, amidst -the dreaming loveliness of the moon-washed roofs and turrets, there was -a touch of something that was just a little exquisitely sad, and that -too, faint, yet quite perceptible, was in his own mood. - - - - -III - - -There came the concert in the first week of December. No one, not even -those of the Common-Room who were least cordially disposed to him, could -deny that Speed had worked indefatigably and that his efforts deserved -success. Yet the success, merited though it was, was hardly likely to -increase his popularity among those inclined to be jealous of him. - -Briskly energetic and full of high spirits throughout all the -rehearsals, and most energetic of all on the actual evening of the -performance, he yet felt, when all was over and he knew that the affair -had been a success, the onrush of a wave of acute depression. He had, no -doubt, been working too hard, and this was the natural reaction of -nerves. It was a cold night with hardly any wind, and during the evening -a thick fog had drifted up from the fenlands, so that there was much -excited talk among the visitors about the difficulties of getting to -their homes. Nothing was to be seen more than five or six yards ahead, -and there was the prospect that as the night advanced the fog would -become worse. The Millstead boys, enjoying the novelty, were scampering -across the forbidden quadrangle, revelling in the delightful risk of -being caught and in the still more delightful possibility of knocking -over, by accident, some one or other of the Masters. Speed, standing on -the top step of the flight leading down from the Big Hall, gazed into -the dense inky-black cloisters where two faint pin-pricks of light -indicated lamps no more than a few yards away. He felt acutely -miserable, and he could not think why. In a way, he was sorry that the -bustle of rehearsals, to which he had become quite accustomed, was all -finished with; but surely that was hardly a sufficient reason for -feeling miserable? Hearing the boyish cries from across the quadrangle -he suddenly felt that he was old, and that he wished he were young -again, as young as the youngest of the boys at Millstead. - -Since the quarrel about Smallwood he and Helen had got on tolerably well -together. She had not asked Smallwood in to tea again, and he judged -that she did not intend to, though to save her dignity she would still -persist in her right to do so whenever she wished. The arrangement was -quite satisfactory to him. But, despite the settlement of that affair, -their relationship had suddenly become a thing of fierce, alternating -contrasts. They were either terrifically happy or else desperately -miserable. The atmosphere, when he came into Lavery's after an absence -of even a quarter of an hour, might either be dull and glowering or else -radiant with joy. He could never guess which it would be, and he could -never discover reasons for whichever atmosphere he encountered. But -invariably he was forced into responding; if Helen were moody and silent -he also remained quiet, even if his inclinations were to go to the piano -and sing comic songs. And if Helen were bright and joyful he forced -himself to boisterousness, no matter what press of gravity was upon -him. He sometimes found himself stopping short on his own threshold, -frightened to enter lest Helen's mood, vastly different from his own, -might drag him up or down too disconcertingly. Even their times of -happiness, more wonderful now than ever, were drug-like in possessing -after-effects which projected themselves backward in a tide of sweet -melancholy that suffused everything. He knew that he loved her more -passionately than ever, and he knew also that the beauty of it was -mysteriously impregnated with sadness. - -She stole up to him now in the fog, dainty and pretty in her heavy fur -cloak. She put a hand on his sleeve; evidently this was one of her -happy moods. - -"Oh, Kenneth--_what_ a fog! Aren't you glad everything's all over? It -went off wonderfully, didn't it? Do you think the Rayners will be able -to get home all right--they live out at Deepersdale, you know?" - -Replying to the last of her queries, he said: "Oh yes, I don't think -it's quite bad enough to stop them altogether." - -Then after a pause she went on: "Clare's just putting her things on and -I told her to meet you here. You'll see her home, won't you?" - -He wondered in a vague kind of way why Helen was so desperately anxious -that he should take Clare on her way home, but he was far too exhausted -mentally to give the matter sustained excogitation. It seemed to him -that Helen suddenly vanished, that he waited hours in the fog, and that -Clare appeared mysteriously by his side, speaking to him in a voice that -was full of sharp, recuperative magic. "My dear man, aren't you going to -put your coat on?" Then he deliberately laughed and said: "Heavens, yes, -I'd forgotten--just a minute if you don't mind waiting!" - -He groped his way back into the hall and to the alcove where he had laid -his coat and hat. The yellow light blurred his eyes with a film of -half-blindness; phantasies of doubt and dread enveloped him; he felt, -with that almost barometric instinct that he possessed, that things -momentous and incalculable were looming in the future. This Millstead -that had seemed to him so bright and lovely was now heavy with dark -mysterious menace; as he walked back across the hall through the long -avenues of disturbed chairs it occurred to him suddenly that perhaps -this foreboding that was hovering about him was not mental at all, but -physical; that he had overworked himself and was going to be ill. -Perhaps, even, he was ill already. He had a curious desire that someone -should confirm him in this supposition; when Clare, meeting him at the -doorway, said: "You're looking thoroughly tired out Mr. Speed," he -smiled and answered, with a touch of thankfulness: "I'm feeling, -perhaps, a little that way." - -"Then," said Clare, immediately, "please don't trouble to see me home. I -can quite easily find my own way, I assure you. You go back to Lavery's -and get straight off to bed." - -The thought, thus presented to him, of foregoing this walk into the town -with her, sent a sharp flush into his cheeks and pulled down the -hovering gloom almost on to his eyes; he knew then, more acutely than he -had ever guessed before, that he was desiring Clare's company in a way -that was a good deal more than casual. The realisation surprised him -just a little at first, and then surprised him a great deal because at -first it had surprised him only a little. - -"I'd rather come with you if you don't mind," he said. "The walk will do -me good." - -"What, _this_ weather!" she exclaimed softly, and then laughed a sharp, -instant laugh. - -That laugh galvanised him into determination. "I'm coming anyway," he -said quietly, and took her arm and led her away into the fog. - -Out in the high road it was blacker and denser; the school railings, -dripping with grimy moisture, provided the only sure clue to position. -Half, at least, of Speed's energies were devoted to the task of not -losing the way; with the other half he was unable to carry out much of -the strange programme of conversation that had been gathering in his -mind. For many days past he had been accumulating a store of things to -say to her upon this memorable walk which, so far as he could judge, was -bound to be the last; now, with the opportunity arrived, he said hardly -anything at all. She chattered to him about music and Millstead and odd -topics of slight importance; she pressed her scarf to her lips and the -words came out curiously muffled and deep-toned, with the air of having -incalculable issues depending on them. But he hardly answered her at -all. And at last they reached Harrington's shop in the High Street, and -she shook hands with him and told him to get back as quickly as he could -and be off to bed. "And don't work so hard," were her last words to him, -"or you'll be ill." - -Thicker and blacker than ever was the fog on the way back to the school, -and somehow, through what error he never discovered, he lost himself -amongst the narrow, old fashioned streets in the centre of the town. He -wandered about, as it seemed to him, for hours, creeping along walls and -hoping to meet some passer-by who could direct him. Once he heard -Millstead Parish Church beginning the chime of midnight, but it was from -the direction he least expected. At last, after devious manœuvring, he -discovered himself again on the main road up to the School, and this -time with great care he managed to keep to the route. As he entered the -main gateway he heard the school clock sounding the three-quarters. A -quarter to one! All was silent at Lavery's. He rang the bell timorously. -After a pause he heard footsteps approaching on the other side, but they -seemed to him light and airy; the bolts were pushed back, not with -Burton's customary noise, but softly, almost frightenedly. - -He could see that it was Helen standing there in the porch, not Burton. -She flashed an electric torch in his face and then at his feet so that -he should see the step. - -She said: "Come in quickly--don't let the fog in. You're awfully late, -aren't you? I told Burton to go to bed. I didn't know you were going to -stay at Clare's." - -He answered: "I didn't stay at Clare's. I got lost in the fog on the way -back." - -"Lost!" she echoed, walking ahead of him down the corridor towards his -sitting-room. The word echoed weirdly in the silence. "_Lost_, were -you?--So that's why you were late?" - -"That's why," he said. - -He followed her into the tiny lamp-lit room, full of firelight that was -somehow melancholy and not cheerful. - - - - -IV - - -She was silent. She sat in one of the chairs with her eyes looking -straight into the fire; while he took off his coat and hat and drew up -his own chair opposite to hers she neither moved nor spoke. It seemed to -him as he watched her that the room grew redder and warmer and more -melancholy; the flames lapped so noisily in the silence that he had for -an instant the absurd fear that the scores of sleepers in the -dormitories would be awakened. Then he heard, very faintly from above, -what he imagined must be an especially loud snore; it made him smile. As -he smiled he saw Helen's eyes turned suddenly upon him; he blushed as if -caught in some guilty act. He said: "Can you hear somebody snoring up in -the Senior dormitory?" - -She stared at him curiously for a moment and then replied: "No, and -neither can you. You said that to make conversation." - -"I didn't!" he cried, with genuine indignation. "I distinctly heard it. -That's what made me smile." - -"And do you really think that the sound of anybody snoring in the Senior -dormitory would reach us in here? Why, we never hear the maids in a -morning and they make ever such a noise!" - -"Yes, but then there are so many other noises to drown it. However, it -may have been my imagination." - -"Or it may have been your invention, eh?" - -"I tell you, Helen, I _did_ think that I heard it! It _wasn't_ my -invention. What reason on earth should I have for inventing it? Oh, -well, anyway, it's such a trifling matter--it's not worth arguing -about." - -"Then let's stop arguing. You started it." - -Silence again. The melancholy in the atmosphere was charged now with an -added quality, something that weighed and threatened and was dangerous. -He knew that Helen had something pressing on her mind, and that until -she flung it off there would be no friendliness with her. And he wanted -friendliness. He could not endure the torture of her bitter silences. - -"Helen," he said, nervously eager, "Helen, there's something the matter. -Tell me what it is." - -"There's nothing the matter." - -"Are you sure?" - -"Quite sure." - -"Then why are you so silent?" - -"Because I would rather be silent than make conversation." - -"That's sarcastic." - -"Is it? If you think it is----" - -"Helen, please be kind to me. If you go on as you are doing I'm sure I -shall either cry or lose my temper. I'm tired to death after all the -work of the concert and I simply can't bear this attitude of yours." - -"Well, I can't change my attitude to please you." - -"Apparently not." - -"_Now_ who's sarcastic? Good heavens, do you think I've nothing to do -but suit your mood when you come home tired at one o'clock in the -morning--You spend half the night with some other woman and then when -you come home, tired out, you expect me to soothe and make a fuss of -you!" - -"Helen, that's a lie! I walked straight home with Clare. You specially -asked me to do that." - -"I didn't specially ask you to stay out with her till one o'clock in the -morning." - -"I didn't stay with her till then. To begin with, it isn't one o'clock -even yet.... Remember that the concert was over about eleven. I took -Clare straight home and left her long before midnight. It wasn't my -fault I lost my way in the fog." - -"Nor mine either. But perhaps it was Clare's, eh?" - -"Helen, I can't bear you to insinuate like that! Tell me frankly what -you suspect, and then I'll answer frankly!" - -"You wouldn't answer frankly. And that's why I can't tell you frankly." - -"Well, I think it's scandalous----" - -She interrupted him fiercely with: "Oh, yes, it's scandalous that I -should dare to be annoyed when you give all your friendship to another -woman and none to me, isn't it? It's scandalous that when you come home -after seeing this other woman I shouldn't be perfectly happy and bright -and ready to kiss and comfort you and wheedle you out of the misery -you're in at having to leave her! You only want me for a comforter, and -it's so scandalous when I don't feel in the humour to oblige, isn't it?" - -"Helen, it's not true! My friendship belongs to you more than to----" - -"Don't tell me lies just to calm me into suiting your mood. Do you think -I haven't noticed that we haven't anything in common except that we love -each other? We don't know what on earth to talk about when we're alone -together. We just know how to bore each other and to torture each other -with our love. Don't you realize the truth of that? Don't you find -yourself eagerly looking forward to seeing Clare; Clare whom you can -talk to and be friendly with; Clare who's your equal, perhaps your -superior, in intellect? Lately, I've given you as many chances to see -her as I could, because if you're going to tire of me I'd rather you do -it quickly. But I'm sorry I can't promise to be always gay and amusing -while it's going on. It may be scandalous that I can't, but it's the -truth, anyway!" - -"But, my dear Helen, what an extraordinary bundle of misunderstandings -you've got hold of! Why----" - -"Oh yes, you'd like to smooth me down and persuade me it's all my own -misunderstanding, I daresay, as you've always been able to do! But the -effect doesn't last for very long; sooner or later it all crops up -again. It's no use, Kenneth. I'm not letting myself be angry, but I tell -you it's not a bit of use. I'm sick to death of wanting from you what I -can't get. I've tried hard to educate myself into being your equal, but -it doesn't seem to make you value me any more. Possibly you like me best -as a child; perhaps you wouldn't have married me if you'd known I was -really a woman. Anyway, Kenneth, I can't help it. And there's another -thing--I'm miserably jealous--of Clare. If you'd had a grain of ordinary -sense you might have guessed it before now." - -"My dear Helen----" - -Then he stopped, seeing that she was staring at him fearlessly. She was -different, somehow, from what she had ever been before; and this -quarrel, if it could be called a quarrel, was also different both in -size and texture. There was no anger in her; nothing but stormy -sincerity and passionate outpouring of the truth. A new sensation -overspread him; a thrill of surprised and detached admiration for her. -If she were always like this, he thought--if she were always proud, -passionate, and sincere--how splendidly she would take possession of -him! For he wanted to belong to her, finally and utterly; he was anxious -for any enslavement that should give him calm and absolute anchorage. - -His admiration was quickly superseded by astonishment at her -self-revelation. - -"But Helen--" he gasped, leaning over the arm of his chair and putting -his hand on her wrist, "Helen, I'd no idea! _Jealous_! You jealous of -Clare! What on earth for? Clare's only an acquaintance! Why, you're a -thousand times more to me than Clare ever is or could be!" - -"Kenneth!" She drew her arm away from the touch of his hand with a -gesture that was determined but not contemptuous. "Kenneth, I don't -believe it. Perhaps you're not trying to deceive me; probably you're -trying to deceive yourself and succeeding. Tell me, Kenneth, truthfully, -don't you sometimes wish I were Clare when you're talking to me? When -we're both alone together, when we're neither doing nor saying anything -particular, don't you wish you could make me vanish suddenly and have -Clare in my place, and--and--" bitterness crept into her voice -here--"and call me back when you wanted the only gift of mine which you -find satisfactory? You came back to-night, miserable, because you'd said -good-bye to Clare, and because you couldn't see in the future any -chances of meeting her as often as you've been able to do lately. You -wanted--you're wanting it now--Clare's company and Clare's conversation -and Clare's friendship. And because you can't have it you're willing to -soothe yourself with my pretty little babyish ways, and when you find -you can't have _them_ either you think it's scandalous! Kenneth, my -dear, dear Kenneth, I'm not a baby any longer, even if I ever was -one--I'm a woman now, and you don't like me as much. I can't help it. I -can't help being tortured with jealousy all the time you're with Clare. -I can't help wanting what Clare has of you more than I want what I have -of you myself. I can't help--sometimes--hating her--loathing her!" - -He was speechless now, made so by a curious dignity with which she spoke -and the kindness to him that sounded in everything that she said. He was -so tired and sorry. He leaned his head in his arms and sobbed. Some -tragedy that had seemed to linger in the lamp-lit room ever since he had -come into it out of the fog, was now about his head blinding and -crushing him; all the world of Millstead, spread out in the panorama of -days to come, appeared in a haze of forlorn melancholy. The love he had -for Helen ached in him with a sadness that was deeper now than it had -ever been. - -And then, suddenly, she was all about him, kneeling beside him, stroking -his hair, taking his hand and pressing it to her breast, crying softly -and without words. - -He whispered, indistinctly: "Helen, Helen, it's all right. Don't you -worry, little Helen. I'm not quite well to-night, I think. It must be -the strain of all that concert work.... But I'll be all right when I've -had a rest for a little while.... Helen, darling, you mustn't cry about -me like that!" - -Then she said, proudly, though her voice still quivered: "I'm not -worrying, dear. And you'll see Clare again soon, because I shall ask her -to come here. You've got to choose between us, and Clare shall have a -fair chance, anyway.... And now come to bed and sleep." - -He gave her a smile that was more babyish than anything that she had -ever been or done. And with her calm answering smile the sadness seemed -somehow a little lifted. - - - - -CHAPTER FOUR - - -I - - -He was in bed for three days with a temperature (but nothing more -serious); Howard, the School doctor, chaffed him unmercifully. "You're a -lucky man. Speed, to be ill in bed with Mrs. Speed to nurse you! Better -than being up in the Sick-room, isn't it?" Once the idea occurred to -Speed that he might be sickening for some infectious complaint, in which -case he would be taken away and isolated in the Sanatorium. When he -half-hinted the possibility of this to Howard, the latter said, laughing -loudly: "You needn't worry, Speed. I know you don't want to lose your -pretty little nurse, do you? I understand you, young man--I was your age -once, you know." - -But the strange thing was that what Howard supposed Speed didn't want -was just what he did want. He wanted to lose Helen for a little while. -Not because he didn't love her. Not because of any reason which he could -dare to offer himself. Merely, he would admit, a whimsical desire to be -without her for a short time; it would, he thought, clutching hold of -the excuse, save her the work of attending to him. He could hardly -understand himself. But the fact was, Helen saddened him. It was -difficult to explain in detail; but there was a kind of aura of -melancholy which seemed to follow her about wherever she went. In the -short winter afternoons he lay awake watching her, listening to the -distant cheering on the footer pitches, sniffing the aroma of tea that -she was preparing for him; it was all so delicious and cosy, and yet, in -a curious, blinding way, it was all so sad. He felt he should slide into -madness if he were condemned to live all his days like these, with warm -fires and twilit meals and Helen always about him in attendance. He -could not understand why it was that though he loved her so dearly yet -he should not be perfectly happy with her. - -How strange it was to lie there all day listening to all the sounds of -Millstead! He heard the School-bell ringing the end of every period, the -shouts of the boys at call-over, the hymns in the chapel--(his Senior -organ-pupil was deputising for him)--Burton locking up at night, the -murmur of gramophones in the prefects' studies; and everything, it -seemed to him, was full of this same rich sadness. Then he reasoned with -himself; the sadness must be a part of him, since he saw and felt it in -so many things and places. It was unfair to blame Helen. Poor Helen, how -kind she was to him, and how unkindly he treated her in return! -Sometimes he imagined himself a blackguard and a cad, wrecking the -happiness of the woman who would sacrifice everything for his sake. Once -(it was nearly dark, but the lamp had not yet been lit) he called her to -him and said, brokenly: "Helen, darling--Helen, I'm so sorry." "Sorry -for what, Kenneth?" she enquired naturally. And he thought and pondered -and could only add: "I don't know--nothing in particular. I'm just -sorry, that's all." And once also he lashed himself into a fervour of -promises. "I _will_ be kind to you, Helen, dearest. We _will_ be -friends, we two. There's nothing that anybody shall have of me that you -shan't have also. I _do_ want you to be happy, Helen." And she _was_ -happy, then, happy and miserable at the same time; crying for joy at the -beautiful sadness of it all. - -Those long days and nights! The wind howled up from the fenlands and -whiffed through the ivy on the walls; the skies were grey and desolate, -the quadrangle a waste of dingy green. It was the time of the terminal -House-Matches, and when Milner's beat School House in the Semi-Final the -cheering throng passed right under Speed's window, yelling at the tops -of their voices and swinging deafening rattles. In a few days Milner's -would play Lavery's in the Final, and he hoped to be up by then and able -to watch it. - -Of course, he had visitors. Clanwell came and gave him endless chatter -about the House-Matches; a few of the less influential prefects paid him -a perfunctory visit of condolence and hoped he would soon be all right -again. And then Doctor and Mrs. Ervine. "Howard tells me it is -nothing--um--to be--um, er, perturbed about. Just, to use -an--um--colloquialism, run down, eh, Speed? The strain of -the--um--concert must have been quite--um--considerable. By the way, -Speed, I ought to congratulate you--the whole evening passed in the -most--um, yes--the most satisfactory manner." And Mrs. Ervine said, in -her rather tart way: "It's quite a mercy they only come once a year, or -we should all be dead very soon, I think." - -And Clare. - -Helen had kept her promise. She had written to Clare asking her to tea -on a certain afternoon, and she had also contrived that when Clare came -she should be transacting important and rather lengthy business with the -Matron. The result was that Speed, now in his sitting-room though still -not allowed out of doors, was there alone to welcome her. - -He had got into such a curious state of excitement as the time neared -for her arrival that when she did come he was almost speechless. She -smiled and shook hands with him and said, immediately: "I'm so sorry to -hear you haven't been very well. I feel partly responsible, since I -dragged you all that way in the fog the other night. But I'm not going -to waste too much pity on you, because I think you waste quite enough on -yourself, don't you?" - -He laughed weakly and said that perhaps he did. - -Then there was a long pause which she broke by saying suddenly: "What's -the matter with you?" - -"Matter with me? Oh, nothing serious--only a chill----" - -"That's not what I mean. I want to know what's the matter with you that -makes you look at me as you were doing just then." - -"I--I--I didn't know I was. I--I----" - -He stopped. What on earth were they going to talk about? And what was -this look that he had been giving her? He felt his cheeks burning; a -fire rising up all around him and bathing his body in warmth. - -She said, obviously with the desire to change the subject: "What are you -and Helen going to do at Christmas?" - -Pulling himself together with an effort, he replied: "Well, we're not -certain yet. My--er--my people have asked us down to their place." - -"And of course you'll go." - -"I'm not certain." - -"But why not?" - -He paused. "Well, you see--in a way, it's a private reason. I mean----" - -"Oh, well, if it's a private reason, you certainly mustn't tell me. -Let's change the subject again. How are the House-Matches going?" - -"Look here, I didn't mean to be rude. And I do want to tell you, as it -happens. In fact, I wouldn't mind your advice if you'd give it me. Will -you?" - -"Better put the case before me first." - -"Well, you see, it's like this." He was so desperately and unaccountably -nervous that he found himself plunging into the midst of his story -almost before he realised what he was doing. "You see, my people were in -Australia for a holiday when I married Helen. I had to marry her -quickly, you remember, because of taking this housemastership. And I -don't think they quite liked me marrying somebody they'd never seen." - -"Perfectly natural on their part, my dear man. You may as well admit -that much of their case to start with." - -"Yes, I suppose it is rather natural. But you don't know what my people -are like. I don't think they'll care for Helen very much. And Helen is -bound to be nervous at meeting them. I expect we should have a pretty -miserable Christmas if we went." - -"I should think in your present mood you'd have a pretty miserable -Christmas whatever you did. And since you asked for my advice I'll give -it you. Buck yourself up; don't let your imagination carry you away; and -take Helen to see your people. After all, she's perfectly presentable, -and since you've married her there's nothing to be gained by keeping her -out of their sight, is there? Don't think I'm callous and unfeeling -because I take a more practical view of things than you do. I'm a -practical person, you see, Mr. Speed, and if I had married you I should -insist on being taken to see your people at the earliest possible -opportunity." - -"Why?" - -"Because," she answered, "I should be anxious for them to see what an -excellent choice you'd made!" - -That was thoughtlessly said and thoughtfully heard. After a pause Speed -said, curiously: "That brings one to the question--supposing I had -married you, should I have made an excellent choice?" - -With a touch of surprise and coldness she replied: "That wasn't in my -mind, Mr. Speed. You evidently misunderstood me." - -And at this point Helen came into the room. - - - - -II - - -During that strange twilight hour while the three of them were -tea-drinking and conducting a rather limp conversation about local -matters, Speed came suddenly to the decision that he would not see Clare -again. Partly, perhaps, because her last remark just before Helen -entered had hurt him; he felt that she had deliberately led him into a -position from which she could and did administer a stinging snub. But -chiefly his decision was due to a careful and pitiful observation of -Helen; he saw her in a dazzling white light of admiration, for she was -deliberately (he could see) torturing herself to please him. She was -acutely jealous of Clare, and yet, because she thought he liked Clare, -she was willing to give her open hospitality and encouragement, despite -the stab that every word and gesture must mean to her. It reminded him -of Hans Andersen's story about the mermaid who danced to please her -lover-prince even though each step cost her agonies. The pathos of it, -made more apparent to him by the literary comparison, overwhelmed him -into a blind fervour of resolution: he would do everything in his power -to bring happiness to one who was capable of such love and such -nobility. And as Helen thus swung into the focus of his heroine-worship, -so Clare, without his realising it, took up in his mind the other -inevitable position in the triangle; she was something, at least, of the -adventuress, scheming to lure his affections away from his brave little -wife. The fact that he was not conscious of this conventional outlook -upon the situation prevented his reason from assuring him that Clare, so -far from scheming to lure his affections from Helen, had just snubbed -him unmercifully for a remark which any capable adventuress would have -rejoiced over. - -Anyway, he decided there and then, he would put a stop to this tangled -and uncomfortable situation. And after tea, when Helen, on a pretext -which he knew quite well to be a fabrication, left him alone again with -Clare, he could think of no better method of procedure than a -straightforward request. - -So he summed up the necessary determination to begin: "Miss Harrington, -I hope you won't be offended at what I'm going to say----" - -Whereat she interrupted: "Oh, I don't often take offence at what people -_say_. So please don't be frightened." - -"You see ..." He paused, watching her. He noticed, curiously enough for -the first time, that she was--well, not perhaps pretty, but -certainly--in a way--attractive. In the firelight especially, she seemed -to have the most searching and diabolically disturbing eyes. They made -him nervous. At last he continued: "You see, I'm in somewhat of a -dilemma. A quandary, as it were. In fact--in fact I----" - -"Supposing we use our ordinary English language and say that you're in a -mess, eh? 'Quandary'! 'Dilemma'!" She laughed with slight contempt. - -"I don't--I don't quite see the point of--of your--objection," he said, -staring at her with a certain puzzled ruefulness. "What has my choice of -a word got to do with it?" - -"To do with what?" she replied, instantly. - -"With what--with what we're going to talk about." - -"Since I haven't the faintest idea what we're going to talk about, how -can I say?" - -"Look here!" He got up out of his chair and stood with his back to the -fire. He kept a fretful silence for a moment and then said, with a sharp -burst of exasperation: "Look here, I don't know what you're driving at! -I only know that you're being most infernally rude!" - -"Don't forget that a moment ago you were asking me not to take offence." - -"You're damned clever, aren't you?" he almost snarled. - -That was all he could think of in the way of an answer to her. He stood -there swaying lightly in front of the fire, nursing, as it were, his -angry bafflement. - -"Thank you," she replied. "I regard that as a very high tribute. And I'm -nearly as pleased at one other thing--I seem to have shaken you partly -out of your delightful and infuriating urbanity.... But now, we're not -here to compliment each other. You've got something you want to say to -me, haven't you?" - -He stared at her severely and said: "Yes, I have. I want to ask you not -to come here any more." - -"Why?" She shot the word out at him almost before he had finished -speaking. - -"Because I don't wish you to." - -"You forget that I come at Helen's invitation, not at yours." - -"I see I shall have to tell you the real reason, then. I would have -preferred not to have done. My wife is jealous of you." - -He expected her to show great surprise, but the surprise was his when -she replied almost casually: "Oh yes, she was jealous of _you_ -once--that first evening we met at the Head's house--do you remember?" - -No, he did not remember. At least, he did now that she called it to his -memory, but he had not remembered until then. Curious ... - -He was half-disappointed that she was so calm and unconcerned about it -all. He had anticipated some sort of a scene, either of surprise, -remorse, indignation, or sympathy. Instead of which she just said "Oh, -yes," and indulged in some perfectly irrelevant reminiscence. Well, not -perhaps irrelevant, but certainly inappropriate in the circumstances. - -"You see," he went on, hating her blindly because she was so serene; -"you see she generously invites you here, because she thinks I like you -to come. Well, of course, I do, but then, I don't want to make it hard -for her. You understand what I mean? I think it is very generous of her -to--to act as she does." - -"I think it is very foolish unless she has the idea that in time she can -conquer her jealousy.... But I quite understand, Mr. Speed. I won't come -any more." - -"I hope you don't think----" - -"Fortunately I have other things to think about. I assure you I'm not -troubling at all. Even loss of friendship----" - -"But," he interrupted eagerly, "surely it's not going to mean that, Miss -Harrington? Just because you don't come here doesn't mean that you and -I----" - -She laughed in his face as she replied, cutting short his remarks: "My -dear Mr. Speed, you are too much of an egoist. It wasn't your friendship -I was thinking about--it was Helen's. You forget that I've been Helen's -friend for ten years.... Well, good-bye...." - -The last straw! He shook hands with her stiffly. - -When she had gone his face grew hard and solemn, and he clenched his -fists as he stood again with his back to the fire. He felt--the word -_came_ to his mind was a staggering inevitability--he felt _dead_. -Absolutely dead. And all because she had gone and he knew that she would -not come again. - - - - -III - - -Those were the dark days of the winter term, when Burton came round the -dormitories at half-past seven in the mornings and lit all the flaring -gas-jets. There was a cold spell at the beginning of December when it -was great fun to have to smash the film of ice on the top of the water -in the water-jugs, and one afternoon the school got an extra -half-holiday to go skating on one of the neighbouring fens that had been -flooded and frozen over. Now Speed could skate very well, even to the -point of figure-skating and a few easy tricks, and he took a very simple -and human delight in exhibiting his prowess before the Millstead boys. -He possessed a good deal of that very charming boyish pride in athletic -achievement which is so often mistaken for modesty, and there was no -doubt that the reports of his accomplishments on the wide expanse of -Dinglay Fen gave a considerable fillip to his popularity in the school. - -A popularity, by the way, which was otherwise very distinctly on the -wane. He knew it, felt it as anyone might have felt it, and perhaps, -additionally, as only he in all the world could feel it; it was the dark -spectre in his life. He loved success; he was prepared to fight the -sternest of battles provided they were victories on the road of -progress; but to see his power slipping from him elusively and without -commotion of any kind, was the sort of thing his soul was not made to -endure. Fears grew up in him and exaggerated reality. He imagined all -kinds of schemes and conspiracies against him in his own House. The -enigma of the Head became suddenly resolved into a sinister hostility to -himself. If a boy passed him in the road with a touch of the cap and a -"Good morning" he would ask himself whether the words contained any -ominous subtlety of meaning. And when, on rare occasions, he dined in -the Masters' Common-Room he could be seen to feel hostility rising in -clouds all about him, hostility that would not speak or act, that was -waiting mute for the signal to uprise. - -He was glad that the term was nearly over, not, he told himself, because -he was unhappy at Millstead, but because he needed a holiday after the -hard work of his first term of housemastership. The next term, he -decided, would be easier; and the term after that easier still, and so -on, until a time would come when his work at Millstead would be exactly -the ideal combination of activity and comfort. Moreover, the next term -he would not see Clare at all. He had made up his mind about that It -would be easier to see her not at all than to see her only a little. And -with the absolute snapping of his relations with her would come that -which he desired most in all the world; happiness with Helen. He wanted -to be happy with Helen. He wanted to love her passionately, just as he -wanted to hate Clare passionately. For it was Clare who had caused all -the trouble. He hugged the comfortable thought to himself; it was Clare, -and Clare only, who had so far disturbed the serenity of his world. -Without Clare his world would have been calm and unruffled, a paradise -of contentment and love of Helen. - -Well, next term, anyway, his world should be without Clare. - - - - -IV - - -On the day that term ended he felt quite boyish and cheerful. For during -that final week he and Helen had been, he considered, perfectly happy; -moreover, she had agreed to go with him to his parents for Christmas, -and though the visit would, in some sense, be an ordeal, the -anticipation of it was distinctly pleasant. Somehow--he would not -analyse his sensation exactly--somehow he wanted to leave the -creeper-hung rooms at Lavery's and charge full tilt into the world -outside; it was as if Lavery's contained something morbidly beautiful -that he loved achingly, but desired to leave in order that he might -return to love it more and again. When he saw the railway vans being -loaded up with luggage in the courtyard he felt himself tingling with -excitement, just as if he were a schoolboy and this the close of his -first miserable term. Miserable! Well, yes, looking back upon it he -could agree that in a certain way it had been miserable, and in another -way it had been splendid, rapturous, and lovely. It had been full, -brimming full, of _feelings_. The feelings had whirled tirelessly about -him in the dark drawing-room, had wrapped him amidst themselves, had -tossed him high and low to the most dizzy heights and the most submerged -depths; and now, aching from it all, he was not sorry to leave for a -short while this world of pressing, congesting sensation. - -He even caught himself looking forward to his visit to his parents, a -thing he had hardly ever done before. For his parents were, he had -always considered, "impossible" parents, good and generous enough in -their way, but "impossible" from his point of view. They were--he -hesitated to use the word "vulgar," because that word implied so many -things that they certainly were not--he would use instead the rather -less insulting word "materialist." They lived in a world that was full -of "things"--soap-factories and cars and Turkey carpets and gramophones -and tennis-courts. Moreover, they were almost disgustingly wealthy, and -their wealth had followed him doggedly about wherever he had tried to -escape from it. They had regarded his taking a post in a public-school -as a kind of eccentric wild oats, and did not doubt that, sooner or -later, he would come to his senses and prefer one or other of the -various well-paid business posts that Sir Charles Speed could get for -him. Oh, yes, undoubtedly they were impossible people. And yet their -very impossibility would be a relief from the tensely charged atmosphere -of Lavery's. - -On the train he chatted gaily to Helen and gave her some indication of -the sort of people his parents were. "You mustn't be nervous of them," -he warned her. "They've pots of money, but they're not people to get -nervous about. Dad's all right if you stick up for yourself in front of -him, and mother's nice to everybody whether she likes them or not. So -you'll be quite safe ... and if it freezes there'll be ice on the -Marshpond...." - -At the thought of this last possibility his face kindled with -anticipation. "Cold, Helen?" he queried, and when she replied "Yes, -rather," he said jubilantly: "I shouldn't be surprised if it's started -to freeze already." - -Then for many minutes he gazed out through the carriage window at the -pleasant monotony of the Essex countryside, and in a short while he felt -her head against his shoulder. She was sleeping. "I do love her!" he -thought triumphantly, giving her a side-glance. And then the sight of a -pond with a thin coating of ice gave him another sort of triumph. - - - - -INTERLUDE - - -CHRISTMAS AT BEACHINGS OVER - - - - -I - - -"BEACHINGS OVER, near Framlingay, Essex. Tel. Framlingay 32. Stations: -Framlingay 2½ miles; Pumphrey Bassett 3 miles." - -So ran the inscription on Lady Speed's opulent bluish notepaper. The -house was an old one, unobtrusively modernised, with about a half-mile -of upland carriage-drive leading to the portico. As Helen saw it from -the window of the closed Daimler that had met them at Framlingay -station, her admiration secured momentary advantage of her nervousness. - -In another moment Speed was introducing her to his mother. - -Lady Speed was undoubtedly a fine woman. "Fine" was exactly the right -word for her, for she was just a little too elderly to be called -beautiful and perhaps too tall ever to have been called pretty. Though -she was upright and clear-skinned and finely-featured, and although the -two decades of her married life had seemed to leave very little -conspicuous impression on her, yet there was a sense, perhaps, in which -she looked her age; it might have been guessed rightly as between forty -and fifty. She had blue eyes of that distinctively English hue that -might almost be the result of gazing continually upon miles and miles of -rolling English landscape; and her nose, still attractively -_retroussé_, though without a great deal of the pertness it must have -had in her youth, held just enough of patricianly bearing to enable her -to manage competently the twenty odd domestics whose labours combined to -make Beachings Over habitable. - -She kissed Helen warmly. "My dear, I'm so pleased to meet you. But -you'll have to rough it along with us, you know--I'm afraid we don't -live at all in style. We're just ordinary country folks, that's all.... -And when you've had your lunch and got refreshed I must take you over -the house and show you everything...." - -Speed laughed and said: "Mother always tells visitors that they've got -to rough it. But there's nothing to rough. I wonder what she'd say if -she had to live three months at Lavery's." - -"Lavery's?" said Lady Speed, uncomprehendingly. - -"Lavery's is the name of my House at Millstead. I was made housemaster -of it at the beginning of the term." He spoke a little proudly. - -"Oh, yes, I seem to know the name. I believe your father was mentioning -something about it to me once, but I hardly remember--" - -"But how on earth did he know anything about it? I never wrote telling -him." - -"Well, I expect he heard it from somebody.... I really couldn't tell you -exactly.... I've had a most awful morning before you came--had to -dismiss one of the maids--she'd stolen a thermos-flask. So ungrateful of -her, because I'd have given it to her if she'd only asked me for it. One -of my best maids, she was." - -After lunch Richard arrived. Richard was Speed's younger brother, on -vacation from school; a pleasant-faced, rather ordinary youngster, -obviously prepared to enter the soap-boiling industry as soon as he left -school. In the afternoon Richard conducted the pair of them round the -grounds and outbuildings, showing them the new Italian garden and the -pergola and the new sunken lawn and the clock-tower built over the -garage and the new gas-engine to work the electric light plant and the -new pavilion alongside the rubble tennis courts and the new wing of the -servants' quarters that "dad" was "throwing out" from the end of the old -coach-house. Then, when they returned indoors, Lady Speed was ready to -conduct them over the interior and show them the panelled bed-rooms and -the lacquered cabinets in the music-room and the bathroom with a solid -silver bath and the gramophone worked by electricity and the wonderful -old-fashioned bureau that somebody had offered to buy off "dad" for -fifteen hundred guineas. - -"Visitors always have to go through it," said Speed, when his mother had -left them. "Personally I'm never the least bit impressed, and I can't -understand anyone else being it." - -Helen answered, rather doubtfully: "But it's a lovely house, Kenneth, -isn't it? I'd no idea your people were like this." - -"Like what?" - -"So--so well-off." - -"Oh, then the display _has_ impressed you?" He laughed and said, -quietly: "I'd rather have our own little place at Lavery's, wouldn't -you?" - -While he was saying it he felt: Yes, I'd rather have it, no doubt, but -to be there now would make me utterly miserable. - -She replied softly: "Yes, because it's our own." - -He pondered a moment and then said: "Yes, I suppose that's one of the -reasons why _I_ would." - -After a pleasant tea in the library he took Helen into the music-room, -where he played Chopin diligently for half-an-hour and then, by special -request of Richard, ran over some of the latest revue songs. Towards -seven o'clock Lady Speed sailed in to remind Richard that it was getting -near dinner-time. "I wish you'd run upstairs and change your clothes, -dear--you know father doesn't like you to come in to dinner in -tweeds.... You know," she went on, turning to Helen, "Charles isn't a -bit fussy--none of us trouble to really _dress_ for dinner, except when -we're in town--only--only you have to put a limit somewhere, haven't -you?" - -As the hour for dinner approached it seemed as if a certain mysteriously -incalculable imminence were in the air, as if the whole world of -Beachings Over were steeling itself in readiness for some searching and -stupendous test of its worth. It was, indeed, ten minutes past eight -when the sound of a motor-horn was heard in the far distance. "That's -Edwards," cried Lady Speed, apprehensively. "He always sounds his horn -to let us know.... Now, Dick dear, don't let him know we've been waiting -for him--you know how he hates to think he's late...." - -And in another moment a gruff voice in the hall could be heard -dismissing the chauffeur with instructions for the morrow. "Ten-thirty -sharp, Edwards. The Daimler if it's wet. Gotter go over and see -Woffenheimer." - -And in yet another moment Lady Speed was rushing forward with an eager, -wifely kiss. "You aren't late, Charles. All the clocks are a little -fast.... Kenneth has come ... and this ..." she spoke a trifle -nervously ... "this is Helen...." - -Sir Charles distributed a gruff nod to the assembly, afterwards holding -out his hand to be shaken. "Ahdedoo, Kenneth, my lad.... How are you? -Still kicking eh? ... Ahdedoo, Helen ... don't mind me calling you Helen, -do you? Well, Richard, my lad...." - -A bald-headed, moustached, white-spatted, morning-coated man, Sir -Charles Speed. - -Dinner opened in an atmosphere of gloomy silence. Lady Speed kept -inaugurating conversations that petered out into a stillness that was -broken only by Sir Charles' morose ingurgitation of soup. Something was -obviously amiss with him. Over the _entrée_ it came out. - -"Had to sack one of the foremen to-day." - -Lady Speed looked up with an appropriate gesture of horror and -indignation. "And I had to dismiss one of my maids too! What a curious -coincidence! How ungrateful people are!" - -"Sneaking timber out of the woodyard," continued Sir Charles, apparently -without the least interest in his wife's adventure with the maid. - -But with the trouble of the sacked foreman off his chest Sir Charles -seemed considerably relieved, though his gloom returned when Richard had -the misfortune to refer to one of the "fellows" at his school as "no -class at all--an absolute outsider." "See here, my lad," exclaimed Sir -Charles, holding up his fork with a peach on the end of it, "don't you -ever let me hear you talking _that_ sort of nonsense! Don't you forget -that _I_ started life as an office-boy cleaning out ink-wells!" Richard -flushed deeply and Lady Speed looked rather uncomfortable. "Don't you -forget it," added Sir Charles, mouthing characteristically, and it was -clear that he was speaking principally for the benefit of Helen. "I -don't want people to think I am what I'm not. If I hadn't been -lucky--and--and" he seemed to experience a difficulty in choosing the -right adjective--"and _smart_--_smart_, mind--I might have been still -cleaning out ink-wells. See?" He filled up his glass with port and for a -moment there was sultry silence again. Eventually, he licked his lips -and broke it. "You know," turning to address Kenneth, "it's all this -education that's at the root of the trouble. Makes the workers too big -for their shoes, as often as not.... Mind you, I'm a democrat, I am. -Can't abide snobbery at any price. But I don't believe in all this -education business. I paid for you at Cambridge and what's it done for -you? You go an' get a job in some stuffy little school or other--salary -about two hundred a year--and God knows how long you'd stay there -without a promotion if I hadn't given somebody the tip to shove you up!" - -"What's that?" Kenneth exclaimed, almost under his breath. - -Sir Charles appeared not to have heard the interruption. He went on, -warming to his subject and addressing an imaginary disputant: "No, sir, -I do _not_ believe in what is termed Education in this country. It don't -help a man to rise if he hasn't got it in him.... Why, look at _me_! _I_ -got on without education. Don't you suppose other lads, if they're smart -enough, can do the same? Don't you think I'm an example of what a man -can become when he's had no education?" - -The younger Speed nodded. The argument was irrefutable. - - - - -II - - -After dinner Speed managed to get his father alone in the library. "I -want to know," he said, quietly, "what you meant when you said something -about giving somebody the tip to shove me up. I want to know exactly, -mind." - -Sir Charles waved his arm across a table. - -"Don't you talk to me like that, my lad. I'm too old for you to -cross-examine. I'm willin' to tell you anythin' you like, only I won't -be bullied into it. So now you know. Light yourself a cigar an', for -God's sake, sit down and look comfortable." - -"Perhaps I could look it if I felt it." - -"Your own fault if you don't feel it. Damned ingratitude, I call it. Sit -down. I shan't answer a question till you're sitting down and smoking as -if you was a friend of mine an' not a damned commercial traveller." - -Speed decided that he had better humour him; he sat down and toyed with -a cigar. "Now, if you'll please tell me." - -"What is it you want me to tell you?" grunted Sir Charles. - -"I want you to tell me what you meant by saying that you gave somebody a -tip to shove me up?" - -"Well, my lad, you don't want to stay an assistant-master all your life, -do you?" - -"That's not the point. I want to know what you did." - -"Why, I did the usual thing that I'd always do to help somebody I'm -interested in." - -"What's that?" - -"Well, you know. Pull a few wires.... Man like me has a few wires he can -pull. I know people, you see--and if I just mention a little -thing--well, they generally remember it all right." - -And he spread himself luxuriously in the arm-chair and actually smiled! - -The other flushed hotly. "I see. May I ask whose help you solicited on -my behalf?" - -"Don't talk like a melodrama, my lad. I'm your best friend if you only -knew it. What is it you want to know now?" - -"I want to know whose help you asked for?" - -"Well, I had a little conversation with Lord Portway. And I had five -minutes' chat over the telephone with old Ervine. Don't you see--" he -leaned forward with a touch of pleading in his voice--"don't you see -that I want you to _get_ on? I've always wanted you to do well in the -world. Your brother's doing well and there's not a prouder father in -England to-day than I am of him. And when young Richard leaves school I -hope he'll get on well too. Now, you're a bit different. Dunno why you -are, but you are, an' I've always recognised it. You can't say I've ever -tried to force you to anythin' you didn't want, can you? You wanted to -go to the 'varsity--well, I don't believe it's a good thing for a young -man to waste his years till he's twenty-two--nevertheless it was your -choice, an' I let you do it. I paid for you, I gave you as much money as -you wanted, an' I didn't complain. Well, then you wanted to be a Master -in a school. You got yourself the job without even consulting me about -it, but did I complain? No, I let you go your own way. I let you do what -I considered an absolutely damsilly thing. Still, I thought, if you're -going to be a teacher you may as well have ambitions an' rise to the top -of the profession. So I thought I'd just put in a word for you. That was -all. I want you to _get on_, my lad, no matter what line you're in. I've -always bin as ambitious for you as I have bin for myself." - -The other said: "I can see you meant well." - -"_Meant_ well? And is it extraordinary that I should mean well to my own -son? Then, there's another thing. You go and get married. Well, I don't -mind that. I believe in marriage. I was married myself when I was -nineteen an' I've never once regretted it: But you go an' get married -all of a hurry while I'm travellin' the other side o' the world, an' you -don't even send me so much as a bit o' weddin'-cake! I don't say: is it -_fair_? I just say: is it _natural_? I come home to England to find a -letter tellin' me you've married the Headmaster's daughter!" - -"Well, why shouldn't I?" - -"I'm not sayin' you shouldn't, my lad. I'm not a snob, an' I don't care -who you marry s'long as she's as good as you are. I don't want you to -marry a duchess. I don't even care if the girl you marry hasn't a cent. -See--I don't mind if she's a dustman's daughter, s'long--s'long, mind, -as she's your equal! That's all. Now you understand me. _Do_ you?" - -"I think I understand you." - -"Good. Now have some more port. An' while you're spendin' Christmas with -us, for God's sake, have a good time and give the girl a good time, too. -Is she fond of theatres?" - -"I--I don't know--well--she might be--" - -"Well, you can have the closed Daimler any night you like to take you -into town and bring you back. And if she's fond of motorin' you can have -the Sunbeam durin' the daytime. Remember that. I want you to have a dam' -good time.... Dam' good.... See? Now have some more port before we join -your mother...." - -"No thanks. I should be drunk if I had any more." - -"Nonsense, my lad. Port won' make you drunk. Dam' good port, isn' -it? ... Wouldn' make you drunk, though.... Don' talk dam' nonsense -to me...." - -He was slightly drunk himself. - - - - -III - - -That interview with his father had a disturbing effect upon Speed. He -had expected a row in which his father would endeavour to tyrannise over -him, instead of which Sir Charles, if there had been any argument at -all, had certainly got the better of it. In a sort of way it did seem -rather unfair to have married without letting his parents know a word -about it beforehand. But, of course, there had been good reasons. First, -the housemastership. He couldn't have been given Lavery's unless he had -married. Ervine had stressed very strongly the desirability of married -housemasters. And it had therefore been necessary to do everything -rather hurriedly in order to be able to begin at Lavery's in the -September. - -It was when he reflected that, but for his father's intervention, he -would probably never have been offered Lavery's that he felt the keenest -feeling of unrest. The more he thought about it the more manifestly -certain incidents in the past became explainable to him. The hostility -of the Common-Room for instance. Did they guess the sort of -"wire-pulling" that had been going on? Probably they did not know -anything definitely, but wasn't it likely that they would conclude that -such a startling appointment must have been the result of some ulterior -intrigue? And wasn't it natural that they should be jealous of him? - -He hated Ervine because, behind all the man's kindness to him, he saw -now merely the ignoble desire to placate influence. Ervine had done it -all to please his father. It was galling to think that that adulatory -speech on the Prize-Day, which had given him such real and genuine -pleasure, had been dictated merely by a willingness to serve the whim of -an important man. It was galling to think that Lord Portway's smiles and -words of commendation had been similarly motivated. It was galling to -think that, however reticent he was about being the son of Sir Charles -Speed, the relationship seemed fated to project itself into his career -in the most unfortunate and detestable of ways. - -Then he thought of Helen. Her motives, of all, were pure and untainted; -she shared neither her father's sycophancy nor his own father's -unscrupulousness. She had married him for no other reason than that she -loved him. And in the midst of the haze of indecent revelations that -seemed to be enveloping him, her love for him and his for her brightened -like stars when the night deepens. - -And then, slowly and subtly at first, came even the suspicion of her. -Was it possible that she had been the dupe of her father? Was it -possible that Ervine very neatly and cleverly had Sir Charles hoist with -his own petard, making the young housemaster of Lavery's at the same -time his own son-in-law? And if so, had Helen played up to the game? The -thought tortured him evilly. He felt it to be such an ignoble one that -he must never breathe it to Helen, lest it should be utterly untrue. Yet -to keep it to himself was not the best way of getting rid of it. It grew -within him like a cancer; it filled all the unoccupied niches of his -mind; it made him sick with apprehension. - -And then, at last, on Christmas Eve he was cruel to her. There had been -a large party at Beachings Over and she had been very shy and nervous -all the evening. And now, after midnight, when they had gone up to their -bedroom, he said, furiously: "What was the matter with you all -to-night?" - -She said: "Nothing." - -He said: "Funny reason for not speaking a word all the evening. Whatever -must people have thought of you?" - -"I don't know. I told you I should be nervous. I can't help it. You -shouldn't have brought me if you hadn't been prepared for it." - -"You might have at least said you'd got a headache and gone off to bed." - -She said, frightenedly: "Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, what's the matter--why -are you talking to me like this?" - -"I hope I'm not being unfair," he replied, imperturbably. - -She flung herself on the bed and began to sob. - -He went on unfastening his dress tie and thinking: She married me -because my father has money. She married me because her father told her -to. She schemed to get me. The housemastership was a plant to get me -married to her before I knew whether I really wanted her or not. - -He was carefully silent the whole rest of the night, though it was hard -to lie awake and hear her sobbing. - - - - -IV - - -The next evening, Christmas Day, there was another party. She looked -rather pale and unhappy, but he saw she was trying to be lively. He felt -acutely sorry for her, and yet, whenever he felt in the mood to relent, -he fortified his mind by thinking of her duplicity. He thought of other -things besides her duplicity. He thought of her stupidity. Why was she -so stupid? Why had he married a woman who couldn't gossip at a small -Christmas party without being nervous? Why had he married a woman who -never spoke at table unless she were spoken to? Other women said the -silliest things and they sounded ordinary; Helen, forcing herself in -sheer desperation to do so, occasionally said the most ordinary things -and they sounded silly. If she ventured on any deliberate remark the -atmosphere was always as if the whole world had stopped moving in order -to see her make a fool of herself; what she said was probably no more -foolish than what anybody else might have said, yet somehow it seemed -outlined against the rest of the conversation as a piece of stark, -unmitigated lunacy. Speed found himself holding his breath when she -began to speak. - -After the rest of the party had gone away he went: into the library for -a cigarette. Helen had gone up to bed; it was past two o'clock, but he -felt very wakeful and disturbed. The morning-room adjoined the library, -and as he sat smoking by the remains of the fire, he heard conversation. -He heard his father's gruff voice saying: "God knows, Fanny, I don't." - -A remark apposite to a great many subjects, he reflected, with a -half-smile. He had no intention to eavesdrop, but he did not see why he -should move away merely because they were talking so loudly about some -probably unimportant topic that their voices carried into the next room. - -Then he heard his mother say: "I think she means well, Charles. Probably -she's not used to the kind of life here." - -His father replied: "Oh, I could tell if it was just that. What I think -is that she's a silly little empty-headed piece of goods, an' I'd like -to know what the devil that fool of a boy sees in her!" - -The blood rushed to his cheeks and temples; he gripped the arms of his -chair, listening intently now to every word, with no thought of the -right or wrong of it. - -The conversation went on. - -"She's more intelligent when you get her alone, Charles. And I'm rather -afraid you frighten her too." - -"Frighten her be damned. If she'd any guts in her she'd like me. The -right sort of women always do like me." - -"Perhaps she does like you. That wouldn't stop her from being frightened -of you, would it? I'm frightened of you myself, sometimes." - -"Don't say damsilly things to me, Fanny. All I say is, I'm not a snob, -an' I've always felt I'd let all my lads choose for themselves -absolutely in a matter like marriage. But I've always hoped and trusted -that they'd marry somebody worth marryin'. I told the boy the other -night--if he'd married a dustman's daughter I'd have welcomed her if -she'd been pretty or clever or smart or something or other about her." - -"But Charles, she _is_ pretty." - -"Think so? Not my style, anyway. An' what's prettiness when there's -nothing else? I like a girl with her wits about her, smart business-like -sort o' girl, pretty if you like--all the better if she is--but a girl -that needn't depend on her looks. Why, I'd rather the lad have married -my typist than that silly little thing! Fact, I've a few factory girls -I'd rather have had for a daughter-in-law than the one I've got!" - -"Well, it's no good troubling about it, Charles. He's done it now, and -if he can put up with her I think we ought to. She's fond enough of him, -I should think." - -"Good God, she ought to be! Probably she's got enough sense to know -what's a bargain, anyway." - -"I think you're a bit too severe, Charles. After all, we've only seen -her for a week." - -"Well, Fanny, answer me a straight question--are you really pleased with -her?" - -"No, I can't say I am, but I realise we've got to make the best of her. -After all, men do make silly mistakes, don't they?" - -"Over women they do, that's a fact.... You know, it's just struck -me--that old chap Ervine's played a dam' smart game." - -"What do you mean?" - -"I bet he put her on to it. I thought I was getting somethin' out of him -when I had that talk over the 'phone, but I'll acknowledge he's gone one -better on me. Smart man, Ervine. I like a smart man, even if it's me he -puts it across. I like him better than his daughter." - -"I should hate him. I think the whole business is dreadful. Perfectly -dreadful.... Did you tell Rogers he could go to bed? ... I said -breakfast at nine-thirty ... yes, ten if you like ..." - -The voices trailed off into the distance. - - - - -V - - -He crept up the stairs carefully, trying not to let them creak. At the -landing outside his room he paused, looking out of the window. It was a -night full of beautiful moonlight, and on the new clock-tower over the -garage the weather-vane glinted like a silver arrow. Snow lay in patches -against the walls, and the pools amidst the cobble-stones in the -courtyard were filmed over with thin ice. As he looked out upon the -scene the clock chimed the quarter. - -He took a few paces back and turned the handle of the door. He felt -frightened to enter. What should he say to her? Would she be in bed and -asleep? Would she be pretending to be asleep? Should he say nothing at -all, but wait till morning, when he had thought it all over? - -He switched on the light and saw that she was in bed. He saw her golden -hair straggling forlornly over the pillow. Something in that touched -him, and suspicion, always on guard against the softness of his heart, -struck at him with a sudden stab. She had plotted. She was a schemer. -The forlorn spread of her hair over the pillow was part of the duplicity -of her. - -He hardened. He said, very quietly and calmly: "Are you awake, Helen?" - -The hair moved and shook itself. "Kenneth!" - -"I want to speak to you." - -"What is it, Kenneth?" - -"Did you--?--Look here--" He paused. How could he put it to her? If he -said straight out: "Did you plot with your father to marry me?" she -would, of course, say no. He must be careful. He must try to trap her -without her being aware. - -"Look here--did you know that it was due to my father's influence that I -got Lavery's?" - -"No, was it? It was good of your father to help you, wasn't it?" - -Stupid little fool! he thought. (Good God, that was nearly what his -father had said she was!) - -He said: "He meant it kindly, no doubt. But you didn't know?" - -"How should I know?" - -"I thought perhaps your father might have told you." - -"I was never interested in his business." - -Pause. A sudden sharp wave of irritation made him continue: - -"I say, Helen, you might remember whom you're talking to when you're at -dinner. The Lord Randolph you were saying the uncomplimentary things -about happens to be the cousin of the lady sitting on your left." - -"Really? Oh, I'm so sorry, Kenneth. I didn't know. D'you think she'd be -offended?" - -"I shouldn't think she'd trouble very much about your opinion, but the -publicity which you gave to it would probably annoy her a little." - -She suddenly hid her head in her arms and burst into tears. - -"Oh, Kenneth--let's go away to-morrow! Let's go back to Millstead! Oh, I -can't bear this any more--I've been miserable ever since I came. I told -you it would all go wrong, Kenneth!--Kenneth, I _have_ tried, but it's no -good--I can't be happy!--Take me away to-morrow, Kenneth. Kenneth, if -you don't I shall run away myself--I simply can't bear any more of it. -You've hated me ever since you came here, because I don't make you feel -proud of me. Oh, I _wish_ I did--I _do_ wish I could! But I've tried so -many times--I've made myself sick with trying--and now that I know it's no -good, let me go back to Millstead where I can give up trying for a -while. Kenneth, be kind to me--I can't help it--I can't help not being -all that you want me to be!" - -She held out her arms for him to have taken hold of, but he stood aside. - -"I think perhaps a return to Millstead would be the best thing we could -do," he said, calmly. "We certainly don't seem to be having a very -exhilarating time here.... Breakfast is at ten, I think. That means that -the car can take us down to catch the 11.50.... I'd better 'phone Burton -in the morning, then he can air the place for us. Would you like to dine -at School to-morrow? I was thinking that probably your father would -invite us if he knew we were coming back so soon?" - -It was in his mind that perhaps he could scheme some trap at the Head's -dinner-table that would enmesh them both. - -She said drearily: "Oh, I don't mind, Kenneth. Just whatever you want." - -"Very well," he replied, and said no more. - -He lay awake until he fancied it must be almost dawn, and all the time -he was acutely miserable. He was so achingly sorry for her, and yet the -suspicion in his mind fortified him against all kindly impulses. He felt -that he would never again weakly give way to her, because the thought of -her duplicity would give him strength, strength even against her tears -and misery. And yet there was one thing the thought of her duplicity did -not give him; it did not give him peace. It made him bitter, unrestful, -angry with the world. - -And he decided, just before he went to sleep, that these new -circumstances that had arisen justified him in taking what attitude he -liked towards Clare. If he wanted to see her he would see her. He would -no longer make sacrifices of his friends for Helen's sake. - - - - -BOOK III - - -THE LENT TERM - - - - -CHAPTER ONE - - -I - - -"The worst term uv the three, sir, that's my opinion," said Burton, -pulling the curtains across the window at dusk. - -"What makes you think that?" asked Speed, forcing himself to be affable. - -"Well, you see, sir, the winter term--or, prop'ly speakin', sir, I -should say the Michaelmas term--isn't so bad because there's the -Christmas 'olidays to look forward to. But the Lent Term always seems to -me to be ten times worse, because there's nothin' at the end of it to -look forward to. Is there now, sir?" - -"There's the Easter holidays and the spring weather." - -Burton grinned. "That's if you're an optimist, sir." - -He was an old man, deeply attached to the school and very reliable, but -prone to take odd liberties on the strength of age and service. Speed -always felt that in Burton's eyes he was a youngster, hardly less a -youngster than one of the prefects, and that Burton considered himself -as the central planet of Lavery's round which Speed revolved as merely a -satellite. The situation had amused him until now; but on this afternoon -of the return from Beachings Over a whole crowd of sinister suspicions -assailed him. In Burton's attitude he seemed to detect a certain -carefully-veiled mockery; was it possible that Burton knew or guessed -the secret of his appointment to Lavery's? Was it also possible that -Burton had pierced through his marriage with Helen and had seen the -sinister scheme behind it? - -He stared hard at Burton. The man was old in a rather theatrical way; he -clumped about exactly like the faithful retainer in the old-fashioned -melodrama; if you addressed him he would turn round, put one hand to his -ear, to leer at you, and say grotesquely: "Sir?" He was the terror of -all the housemaids, the pet of all the Junior boys, and a sort of -communal butler and valet to the prefects. And, beyond all doubt, he was -one of the sights of Lavery's. For the moment Speed detested him. - -"I say, Burton." - -The turn, the hand to ear, the leer, and the grotesque interrogative: -"Sir?" - -"How long have you been at Millstead?" - -"Fifty-one year, sir, come next July. I started when I was fourteen year -old, sir, peelin' potaties in the old kitchins that used to be -underneath Milner's. I come to Lavery's when I was twenty-four as -underporter. I remember old Mr. Hardacre that wuz 'ousemaster before Mr. -Lavery, Sir. Mr. Lavery was 'ousemaster for thirty-eight year, sir, an' -a very great friend of mine. He came to see me only larst Toosday, sir, -a-knockin' at the pantry door just like an old pal o' mine might. He wuz -wantin' to know 'ow the old place was gettin' on." - -Speed's glance hardened. He could imagine Lavery and Burton having a -malicious conversation about himself. - -Burton went on, grinning: "He was arskin' after you, Mr. Speed. I told -'im you wuz away spendin' the Christmas with Sir Charles and Lady Speed. -An' I told him you wuz doin' very well an' bein' very popular, if you'll -pard'n the liberty I took." - -"Oh, certainly," said Speed, rather coldly. - -When Burton had gone out he poked up the fire and pondered. Now that he -was back at Millstead he wished he had stayed longer in Beachings Over. -Millstead was absolutely a dead place in vacation time, and in the -Christmas vacation nothing more dreary and uniformly depressing had ever -come within his experience. Dr. and Mrs. Ervine, so Potter informed him, -had gone to town for a few days and would not be back until after the -New Year. None of the other housemasters was in residence. The huge -empty footer pitches, hardly convalescent after the frays of the past -term, were being marked off for hockey by the groundsman; the chapel was -undergoing a slothful scrubbing by a platoon of chattering charwomen; -the music-rooms were closed; the school organ was in the hands of the -repairers; the clock in the chapel belfry had stopped, apparently -because it was nobody's business to wind it up during vacation-time. - -Perhaps it would freeze enough for skating on Dinglay Fen, was his most -rapturous hope. Helen was shopping in the village, and he expected her -back very soon. It was nearly dark now, but the groundsman was still -busy. There was something exquisitely forlorn in that patient -transference from cricket to footer, from footer to hockey, and then -from hockey to cricket again, which marked the passage of the years at -Millstead. He wondered how long it would all last. He wondered what sort -of an upheaval would be required to change it. Would famine or -pestilence or war or revolution be enough? - -Helen came in. It was curious that his suspicion of her, at first -admitted to be without confirmation, had now become almost a certainty; -so that he no longer felt inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, -or even that there was any doubt whose benefit he could give her. - -While they were having tea he suddenly decided that he would go out that -evening alone and walk himself into a better humour. A half-whimsical -consciousness of his own condition made him rather more kind to her; he -felt sorry for anybody who had to put up with him in his present mood. -He said: "I think I'll have a walk after tea, Helen. I'll be back about -eight. It'll do me good to take some exercise." - -She gave him a sudden, swift, challenging look, and he could see exactly -what was in her eyes. She thought he was going to see Clare. - -The thought had not been in his mind before. But now he was at the mercy -of it; it invaded him; after all, why shouldn't he visit Clare? -Furthermore, what right had Helen to stop him? He put on his hat and coat -in secret tingling excitement; he would go down into the village and -visit Clare. Curious that he hadn't thought of it before! Helen had -simply no right to object. And as he turned his mind to all the -suspicions that had so lately crowded into it, he felt that he was -abundantly justified in visiting a friend of his, even if his wife were -foolishly jealous of her. - -"Back about eight," he repeated, as he opened the door to go out. -Somehow, he wanted to kiss her. He had always kissed her before going -out from Lavery's. But now, since she made no reply to his remark, -presumably she did not expect it. - - - - -II - - -The Millstead road was black as jet, for the moon was hidden behind the -thickest of clouds. It was just beginning to freeze, and as he strode -along the path by the school railings he thought of those evenings in -the winter term when he had seen Clare home after the concert -rehearsals. Somehow, all that seemed ages ago. The interlude at -Beachings Over had given all the previous term the perspective of -immense distance; he felt as if he had been housemaster at Lavery's for -years, as if he had been married to Helen for years, and as if Clare -were a friend whom he had known long years ago and had lost sight of -since. - -As he reached the High Street he began to feel nervous. After all, Clare -might not want to see him. He remembered vaguely their last interview -and the snub she had given him. He looked further back and remembered -the first time he had ever seen her; that dinner at the Head's house on -the first evening of the summer term.... - -But he could not help being nervous. He tried to think that what he was -doing was something perfectly natural and ordinary; that he was just -paying a call on a friend as anybody might have done on a return from a -holiday. He was angry with himself for getting so excited about the -business. And when he rang the bell of the side-door next to the shop he -had the distinct hope that she would not be in. - -But she was in. - -She came to the door herself, and it was so dark outside that she could -not see him. "Who is it?" she asked, and he replied, rather fatuously -expecting her to recognise his voice immediately: "Me. I hope I'm not -disturbing you." - -She answered, in that characteristically unafraid way of hers: "I'm sure -I don't know in the least who you are. Will you tell me your name?" - -Then he said, rather embarrassedly: "Speed, my name is." - -"Oh?" - -Such a strange surprised little "Oh?" He could not see her any more than -she could see him, but he knew that she was startled. - -"Am I disturbing you?" he went on. - -"Oh, no. You'd better come inside. There's nobody in except myself, so I -warn you." - -"Warn me of what?" - -"Of the conventions you are breaking by coming in." - -"Would you rather I didn't?" - -"Oh, don't trouble about me. It's yourself you must think about." - -"Very well then, I'll come in." - -"Right. There are five steps, then two paces along the level, and then -two more steps. It's an old house, you see." - -In the dark and narrow lobby, with the front door closed behind him, and -Clare somewhere near him in the darkness, he suddenly felt no longer -nervous but immensely exhilarated, as if he had taken some decisive and -long contemplated step--some step that, wise or unwise, would at least -bring him into a new set of circumstances. - -Something in her matter-of-fact directions was immensely reassuring; a -feeling of buoyancy came over him as he felt his way along the corridor -with Clare somewhat ahead of him. She opened a door and a shaft of -yellow lamplight came out and prodded the shadows. - -"My little sitting-room," she said. - -It was a long low-roofed apartment with curtained windows at either end. -Persian rugs and tall tiers of bookshelves and some rather good pieces -of old furniture gave it a deliciously warm appearance; a heavily shaded -lamp was the sole illumination. Speed, quick to appreciate anything -artistic, was immediately impressed; he exclaimed, on the threshold: "I -say, what a gloriously old-fashioned room!" - -"Not all of it," she answered quietly. She turned the shade of the lamp -so that its rays focussed themselves on a writing-desk in an alcove. -"The typewriter and the telephone are signs that I am not at all an -old-fashioned person." - -"I didn't say that, did I?" he replied, smiling. - -She laughed. "Please sit down and be comfortable. It's nice to have such -an unexpected call. And I'm glad that though I'm banned from Lavery's -you don't consider yourself banned from here." - -"Ah," he said. He was surprised that she had broached the question so -directly. He flushed slightly and went on, after a pause: "I think -perhaps the ban had better be withdrawn altogether." - -"Why?" - -"Oh, well--well, it doesn't matter--I didn't come here to talk about -it." - -"Oh, yes, you did. That's just what you did come here to talk about. -Either that or something more serious. You don't mean to tell me that -you pay an unconventional call like this just to tell me what an -enjoyable holiday you've had." - -"I didn't have an enjoyable holiday at all," he answered. - -"There! I guessed as much! After all, you wouldn't have come home so -soon if you'd been having a thoroughly good time, would you?" - -"Helen wanted to come home." - -She ceased her raillery of him and went suddenly serious. For some time -she stared into the fire without speaking, and then, in a different tone -of voice altogether she said: "Why did she want to come home?" - -He began to talk rather fast and staccato. "I--I don't know whether I -ought to tell you this--except that you were Helen's friend and can -perhaps help me.... You see, Helen was very nervous the whole time, and -there were one or two dinner-parties, and she--well, not exactly put her -foot in it, you know, but was--well, rather obviously out of everything. -I don't know how it is--she seems quite unable to converse in the -ordinary way that people do--I don't mean anything brilliant--few -people converse brilliantly--what I mean is that--well, she--" - -She interrupted: "You mean that when her neighbour says, 'Have you heard -Caruso in Carmen?'--she hasn't got the sense to reply: 'Oh, yes, isn't -he simply gorgeous?'" - -"That's a rather satirical way of putting it." - -"Well, anyway, it seems a small reason for coming home. If I were -constitutionally incapable of sustaining dinner-party small-talk and my -husband brought me away from his parents for that reason, I'd leave him -for good." - -"I didn't bring her away. She begged me to let her go." - -"Then you must have been cruel to her. You must have made her think that -it mattered." - -"Well, doesn't it matter?" - -She laughed a little harshly. "What a different man you're becoming, Mr. -Speed! Before you married Helen you knew perfectly well that she was -horribly nervous in front of strangers and that she'd never show off -well at rather tiresome society functions. And yet if I or anybody else -had dared to suggest that it mattered you'd have been most tremendously -indignant. You used to think her nervousness rather charming, in fact." - -He said, rather pathetically: "You've cornered me, I confess. And I -suppose I'd better tell you the real reason. Helen's nervousness doesn't -matter to me. It never has mattered and it doesn't matter now. It wasn't -that, or rather, that would never have annoyed me but for something -infinitely more serious. While I was at home I found out about my -appointment at Lavery's." - -"Well, what about it?" - -"It was my father got it for me. He interviewed Portway and Ervine and -God knows who else." - -"Well?" - -"Well?--Do you think I like to be dependent on that sort of help? Do you -think I like to remember all the kind things that people at Millstead -have said about me, and to feel that they weren't sincere, that they -were simply the result of a little of my father's wire-pulling?" - -She did not answer. - -"I left home," he went on, "because my father wanted to shove me into a -nice comfortable job in a soap-works. I wanted to earn my own living on -my own merits. And then, when I manage to get free, he thoughtfully -steps in front of me, so to speak, and without my knowing it, makes the -path smooth for me!" - -"What an idealist you are, Mr. Speed!" - -"What?" - -"An idealist. So innocent of the world! Personally, I think your -father's action extremely kind. And also I regard your own condition as -one of babyish innocence. Did you really suppose that an unknown man, -aged twenty-three, with a middling degree and only one moderately -successful term's experience, would be offered the Mastership of the -most important House at Millstead, unless there'd been a little private -manœuvring behind the scenes? Did you think that, in the ordinary -course of nature, a man like Ervine would be only too willing to set you -up in Lavery's with his daughter for a wife?" - -"Ah, that's it! He wanted me to marry Helen, didn't he?" - -"My dear man, wasn't it perfectly obvious that he did? All through last -summer term you kept meeting her in the school grounds and behaving in a -manner for which any other Master would have been instantly sacked, and -all he did was to smile and be nice and keep inviting you to dinner!" - -Speed cried excitedly: "Yes, that's what my father said. He said it was -a plant; that Ervine in the end proved himself the cleverer of the two." - -"Your father told you that?" - -"No, I overheard it." - -"Your father, I take it, didn't like Helen?" - -"He didn't see the best of her. She was so nervous." - -He went on eagerly: "Don't you see the suspicion that's in my -mind?--That Ervine plotted with Helen to get me married to her! That she -married me for all sorts of sordid and miserable reasons!" - -And then Clare said, with as near passion as he had ever yet seen in -her: "Mr. Speed, you're a fool! You don't understand Helen. -She has faults, but there's one certain thing about her--she's -straight--_absolutely_ straight! And if you've been cruel to her because -you suspected her of being crooked, then you've done her a fearful -injustice! She's straight--straight to the point of obstinacy." - -"You think that?" - -"_Think_ it? Why, man, I'm _certain_ of it!" - -And at the sound of her words, spoken so confidently and indignantly, it -seemed so to him. Of course she was straight. And he had been cruel to -her. He was always the cause of her troubles. It was always his fault. -And at that very moment, might be, she was crying miserably in the -drawing-room at Lavery's, crying for jealousy of Clare. A sudden fierce -hostility to Clare swept over him; she was too strong, too clever, too -clear-seeing. He hated her because it was so easy for her to see things -as they were; because all problems seemed to yield to the probing of her -candid eyes. He hated her because he knew, and had felt, how easy it was -to take help from her. He hated her because her sympathy was so -practical and abundant and devoid of sentiment. He hated her, perhaps, -because he feared to do anything else. - -She said softly: "What a strange combination of strength and weakness -you are, Mr. Speed! Strong enough to follow out an ideal, and weak -enough to be at the mercy of any silly little suspicion that comes into -your mind!" - -He was too much cowed down by the magnitude of his blunder to say a -great deal more, and in a short while he left, thanking her rather -embarrassedly for having helped him. And he said, in the pitch-dark -lobby as she showed him to the front door: "Clare, I think this visit of -mine had better be a secret, don't you?" - -And she replied: "You needn't fear that I shall tell anybody." - -When the door had closed on him outside and he was walking back along -the Millstead lane it occurred to him quite suddenly: Why, I called her -Clare! He was surprised, and perhaps slightly annoyed with himself for -having done unconsciously what he would never have done intentionally. -Then he wondered if she had noticed it, and if so, what she had thought. -He reflected that she had plenty of good practical sense in her, and -would not be likely to stress the importance of it. Good practical -sense! The keynote of her, so it seemed to him. How strong and helpful -it was, and yet, in another way, how deeply and passionately opposed to -his spirit! Why, he could almost imagine Clare getting on well with his -father. And when he reflected further, that, in all probability, his -father would like Clare because she had "her wits about her," it seemed -to him that the deepest level of disparagement had been reached. He -smiled to himself a little cynically; then in a wild onrush came remorse -at the injustice he had done to Helen. All the way back to Millstead he -was grappling with it and making up his mind that he would be -everlastingly kind to her in the future, and that, since she was as she -was, he would not see Clare any more. - - - - -III - - -He found her, as he had more than half expected, sitting in the -drawing-room at Lavery's, her feet bunched up in front of the fire and -her hands clasping her knees. She was not reading or sewing or even -crying; she was just sitting there in perfect stillness, thinking, -thinking, thinking. He knew, as by instinct, that this was not a pose of -hers; he knew that she had been sitting like that for a quarter, a half, -perhaps a whole hour before his arrival; and that, if he had come later, -she would probably have been waiting and thinking still. Something in -her which he did not understand inclined her to brood, and to like -brooding. As he entered the room and saw her thus, and as she gave one -swift look behind her and then, seeing it was he, turned away again to -resume her fireside brooding, a sudden excruciatingly sharp feeling of -irritation rushed over him, swamping for the instant even his remorse: -why was she so silent and aggrieved? If he had treated her badly, why -did she mourn in such empty, terrible silence? Then remorse recovered -its sway over him and her attitude seemed the simple and tremendous -condemnation of himself. - -He did not know how to begin; he wanted her to know how contrite he was, -yet he dared not tell her his suspicion. Oh, if she had only the tact to -treat him as if it had never happened, so that he in return could treat -her as if it had never happened, and the unhappy memory of it all be -speedily swept away! But he knew from the look on her that she could -never do that. - -He walked up to the back of her chair, put his hand on her shoulder, and -said: "Helen!" - -She shrugged her shoulders with a sudden gesture that made him take his -hand away. She made no answer. - -He blundered after a pause: "Helen, I'm so sorry I've been rather hard -on you lately--it's all been a mistake, and I promise--" - -"You've been down to see Clare!" she interrupted him, with deadly -quietness, still watching the fire. - -He started. Then he knew that he must lie, because he could never -explain to her the circumstances in a way that she would not think -unsatisfactory. - -"Helen, I haven't!" he exclaimed, and his indignation sounded sincere, -perhaps because his motive in lying was a pure one. - -She made no answer to that. - -He went on, more fervently: "I didn't see Clare, Helen! Whatever made -you think that?--I just went for a walk along the Deepersdale road--I -wanted some exercise, that was all!" - -She laughed--an awful little coughing laugh. - -"You went to see Clare," she persisted, turning round and, for the first -time, looking him in the eyes. "I followed you, and I saw you go in -Clare's house." - -"You did?" he exclaimed, turning suddenly pale. - -"Yes. Now what have you got to say?" - -He was, rather to his own surprise, quite furious with her for having -followed him. "I've simply got this to say," he answered, hotly. "You've -done no good by following me. You've made me feel I can't trust you, and -you've made yourself feel that you can't trust me. You'll never believe -the true explanation of why I went to Clare--you'll go on suspecting all -sorts of impossible things--you'll worry yourself to death over -nothing--and as for me--well, whenever I go out alone I shall wonder if -you're following a few hundred yards behind!" - -Then she said, still with the same tragic brooding quietness: "You -needn't fear, Kenneth. I'll never follow you. I didn't follow you -to-night. I only said I did. I found out what I wanted to find out just -as well by that, didn't I?" - -He was dazed. He had never guessed that she could be so diabolically -clever. He sank into a chair and shut his eyes, unable to speak. She -went on, without the slightest inflexion in the maddening level of her -voice: "I'm going to leave you, Kenneth. You want Clare, and I'm going -to leave you to her. I won't have you when you want another woman." - -He buried his head in his hands and muttered, in a voice husky with -sobbing: "That's not true, Helen. I don't want Clare. I don't want any -other woman. I only want you, Helen. Helen, you won't leave me, will -you? Promise me you won't leave me, Helen. Helen, don't you--can't you -believe me when I tell you I don't want Clare?" - -Still she reiterated, like some curious, solemn litany: "I'm going to -leave you, Kenneth. You don't really want me. It's Clare you want, not -me. You'll be far happier with Clare. And I shall be far happier without -you than with you when you're wanting Clare. I--I can't bear you to want -Clare, Kenneth. I'd rather you--have her--than want her. So I've -decided. I'm not angry with you. I'm just determined, that's all. I -shall leave you and then you'll be free to do what you like." - -Somehow, a feeling of overwhelming tiredness overspread him, so that for -a short moment he felt almost inclined to acquiesce from mere lack of -energy to do anything else. He felt sick as he stared at her. Then a -curiously detached aloofness came into his attitude; he looked down on -the situation a trifle cynically and thought: How dramatic! Something in -him wanted to laugh, and something else in him wanted to cry; most of -him wanted to kiss her and be comfortable and go to sleep; and nothing -at all of him wanted to argue. He wondered just then if such a moment -ever came to her as it came to him; a moment when he could have borne -philosophically almost any blow, when all human issues seemed engulfed -in the passionate desire to be let alone. - -Yet some part of him that was automatic continued the argument. He -pleaded with her, assured her of his deep and true love, poured infinite -scorn on Clare and his relations with her, held up to view a rosy future -at Lavery's in which he would live with Helen as in one long, idyllic -dream. And as he sketched out this beautiful picture, his mind was -ironically invaded by another one, which he did not show her, but which -he felt to be more true: Lavery's in deep winter-time, with the wind and -rain howling round the walls of it, and the bleak shivering corridors, -and the desolation of the afternoons, and the cramped hostility of the -Masters' Common-Room, and the red-tinted drawing-room at night, all full -of shadows and silence and tragic monotony. And all the time he was -picturing that in his mind he was telling her of Lavery's with the sun -on it, and the jessamine, and the classrooms all full of the sunlit air, -and love, like a queen, reigning over it all. The vision forced itself -out; Helen saw it, but Speed could not. As he went on pleading with her -he became enthusiastic, but it was an artistic enthusiasm; he was -captivated by his own skill in persuasion. And whenever, for a moment, -this interest in his own artistry waned, there came on him afresh the -feeling of deep weariness, and a desire only to rest and sleep and be -friends with everybody. - -At last he persuaded her. It had taken from nine o'clock until midnight. -He was utterly tired out when he had finished. Yet there seemed to be no -tiredness in her, only a happiness that she could now take and caress -him as her own. She could not understand how, now that they had made -their reconciliation, he should not be eager to cement it by -endearments. Instead of which he lit a cigarette and said that he was -hungry. - -While she busied herself preparing a small meal he found himself -watching her continually as she moved about the room, and wondering, in -the calmest and most aloof manner, whether he was really glad that he -had won. Eventually he decided that he was. She was his wife and he -loved her. If they were careful to avoid misunderstandings no doubt they -would get along tolerably well in the future. The future! The vision -came to him again of the term that was in front of him; a vision that -was somehow frightening. - -Yet, above all else, he was tired--dead tired. - -The last thing she said to him that night was a soft, half-whimpered: -"Kenneth, I believe you do want Clare." - -He said sleepily, and without any fervour: "My dear, I assure you I -don't." - -And he fell asleep wondering very vaguely what it would be like to want -Clare, and whether it would ever be possible for him to do so. - - - - -CHAPTER TWO - - -I - - -Term began on the Wednesday in the third week in January. - -Once again, the first few days were something of an ordeal. Constant -anticipations had filled Speed's mind with apprehensions; he was full of -carefully excogitated glooms. Would the hostility of the Masters be more -venomous? Would the prefects of his own house attempt to undermine his -discipline? Would the rank and file try to "rag" him when he took -preparation in the Big Hall? Somehow, all his dreams of Millstead and of -Lavery's had turned now to fears; he had slipped into the position when -it would satisfy him merely to avoid danger and crush hostility. No -dreams now about Lavery's being the finest House in Millstead, and he -the glorious and resplendent captain of it; no vision now of scouring -away the litter of mild corruptions and abuses that hedged in Lavery's -on all sides; no hopes of a new world, made clean and wholesome by his -own influence upon it. All his desire was that he should escape the -pitfalls that were surrounding him, that he should, somehow, live -through the future without disaster to himself. Enthusiasm was all gone. -Those old days when he had plunged zestfully into all manner of new -things, up to his neck in happiness as well as in mistakes--those days -were over. His one aim now was not to make mistakes, and though he did -not know it, he cared for little else in the world. - -That first night of term he played the beginning-of-term hymn in the -chapel. - - - "Lord, behold us with Thy blessing, - Once again assembled here ..." - - -The words fell on his mind with a sense of heavy, unsurmountable gloom. -He looked into the mirror above his head and saw the choir-stalls and -the front rows of the pews; the curious gathering of Millsteadians in -their not-yet-discarded vacation finery; Millsteadians unwontedly sober; -some, perhaps, a little heart-sick. He saw Ervine's back, as he read the -lesson from the lectern, and as he afterwards stood to pronounce the -Benediction. "The grace of God, which passeth--um--understanding, and -the--um--fellowship of the--um--the Holy Spirit ..." - -He hated that man. - -He thought of the dark study and Potter and the drawing-room where he -and Helen had spent so many foolish hours during the summer term of the -year before. - -_Foolish_ hours? Had he come to the point when he looked back with scorn -upon his courtship days? No, no; he withdrew the word "foolish." - -" ... rest upon--um--all our hearts--now and--um--for -ever--um--Ah--men.... I would--um, yes--be glad--if the--um--the--the -new boys this term--would stay behind to see me--um, yes--to see me for -a moment...." - -Yes, he hated that man. - -He gathered his gown round him and descended the ladder into the vestry. -A little boy said "Good-evening, Mr. Speed," and shook hands with him. -"Good-evening, Robinson," he said, rather quietly. The boy went on: "I -hope you had a nice Christmas, sir." Speed started, checked himself, and -replied: "Oh yes, very nice, thanks. And you too, I hope." "Oh yes, -sir," answered the boy. When he had gone Speed wondered if the whole -incident had been a subtle and ironical form of "ragging." Cogitation -convinced him that it couldn't have been; yet fear, always watching and -ready to pounce, would have made him think so. He felt really alarmed as -he walked back across the quadrangle to Lavery's, alarmed, not about the -Robinson incident, which he could see was perfectly innocent, but -because he was so prone to these awful and ridiculous fears. If he went -on suspecting where there was no cause, and imagining where there was no -reality, some day Millstead would drive him mad. _Mad_--yes, _mad_. Two -boys ran past him quickly and he could see that they stopped afterwards -to stare at him and to hold some sort of a colloquy. What was that for? -Was there anything peculiar about him? He felt to see if his gown was on -wrong side out: no, that was all right. Then what did they stop for? -Then he realised that he was actually speaking that sentence out aloud; -he had said, as to some corporeal companion: _What did they stop for_? -Had he been gibbering like that all the way across the quadrangle? Had -the two boys heard him talking about going mad? Good God, he hoped not! -That would be terrible, terrible. He went in to Lavery's with the sweat -standing out in globes on his forehead. And yet, underfoot, the ground -was beginning to be hard with frost. - -Well, anyway, one thing was comforting; he was getting along much better -with Helen. They had not had any of those dreadful, pathetic scenes for -over a fortnight. His dreams of happiness were gone; it was enough if he -succeeded in staving off the misery. As he entered the drawing-room -Helen ran forward to meet him and kissed him fervently. "The first night -of our new term," she said, but the mention only gave a leap to his -anxieties. But he returned her embrace, willing to extract what -satisfaction he could from mere physical passion. - - - - -II - - -An hour later he was dining in the Masters' Common-Room. He would have -avoided the ordeal but for the unwritten law which ordained that even -the housemasters should be present on the first night of term. Not that -there was anything ceremonial about the proceedings. Nothing happened -that did not always happen, except the handshaking and the disposition -to talk more volubly than usual. Potter arched his long mottled neck in -between each pair of diners in exactly the same manner as heretofore; -there was the same unchanged menu of vegetable soup, undercooked meat, -and a very small tart on a very large plate. - -But to Speed it seemed indeed as if everything was changed. The room -seemed different; seemed darker, gloomier, more chronically -insufferable; Potter's sibilant, cat-like stealthiness took on a degree -of sinisterness that made Speed long to fight him and knock him down, -soup-plates and all; the food tasted reminiscently of all the vaguely -uncomfortable things he had ever known. But it was in the faces of the -men around him that he detected the greatest change of all. He thought -they were all hating him. He caught their eyes glancing upon him -malevolently; he thought that when they spoke to him it was with some -subtle desire to insult him; he thought also, that when they were silent -it was because they were ignoring him deliberately. The mild distaste he -had had for some of them, right from the time of first meeting, now -flamed up into the most virulent and venomous of hatreds. And even -Clanwell, whom he had always liked exceedingly, he suspected ever so -slightly at first, though in a little while he liked him as much as -ever, and more perhaps, because he liked the others so little. - -Pritchard he detested. Pritchard enquired about his holiday, how and -where he had spent it, and whether he had had a good time; also if Mrs. -Speed were quite well, and how had she liked the visit to Beachings -Over. Somehow, the news had spread that he had taken Helen to spend -Christmas at his parents' house. He wondered in what way, but felt too -angry to enquire. Pritchard's questions stung him to silent, bottled-up -fury; he answered in monosyllables. - -"Friend Speed has the air of a thoughtful man," remarked Ransome in his -oblique, half-sarcastic way. And Speed smiled at this, not because it -amused him at all, but because Ransome possessed personality which -submerged to some extent his own. - -Finally, when Clanwell asked him up to coffee he declined, courteously, -but with a touch of unboyish reserve which he had never previously -exhibited in his relations with Clanwell. "I've got such a lot of work -at Lavery's," he pleaded. "Another night, Clanwell...." - -And as he walked across the quadrangle at half-past eight he heard again -those curious sounds that had thrilled him so often before, those sounds -that told him that Millstead had come to life again. The tall blocks of -Milner's and Lavery's were cliffs of yellow brillance, from which great -slanting shafts of light fell away to form a patchwork on the -quadrangle. He heard again the chorus of voices in the dormitories, the -tinkle of crockery in the basement studies, the swish of water into the -baths, the babel of miscellaneous busyness. He saw faces peering out of -the high windows, and heard voices calling to one another across the -dark gulf between the two houses. It did not thrill him now, or rather, -it did not thrill him with the beauty of it; it was a thrill of terror, -if a thrill at all, which came to him. And he climbed up the flight of -steps that led to the main door of Lavery's and was almost afraid to -ring the bell of his own house. - -Burton came, shambling along with his unhappy feet and -beaming--positively beaming--because it was the beginning of the term. - -"Once again, sir," he said, mouthing, as he admitted Speed. He jangled -his huge keys in his hand as if he were a stage jailer in a stage -prison. "I don't like the 'ockey term myself, sir, but I'd rather have -any term than the 'olidays." - -"Yes," said Speed, rather curtly. - -There were several jobs he had to do. Some of them he could postpone for -a day, or perhaps, even for a few days, if he liked, but there was no -advantage in doing so, and besides, he would feel easier when they were -all done. First, he had to deliver a little pastoral lecture to the new -boys. Then he had to chat with the prefects, old and new--rather an -ordeal that. Then he had to patrol the dormitories and see that -everything was in proper order. Then he had to take and give receipts -for money which anybody might wish to "bank" with him. Then he had to -give Burton orders about the morning. Then he had to muster a roll-call -and enquire about those who had not arrived. Then, at ten-thirty, he had -to see that all lights were out and the community settled in its beds -for slumber.... - -All of which he accomplished automatically. He told the new boys, in a -little speech that was meant to be facetious, that the one unforgivable -sin at Lavery's was to pour tea-leaves down the waste-pipes of the -baths. He told the prefects, in a voice that was harsh because it was -nervous, that he hoped they would all co-operate with him for the good -of the House. He told Burton, quite tonelessly, to ring the bell in the -dormitories at seven-thirty, and to have breakfast ready in his -sitting-room at eight. And he went round the dormitories at half-past -ten, turning out gases and delivering brusque good-nights. - -Then he went downstairs into the drawing-room of his own house where -Helen was. He went in smiling. Helen was silent, but he knew from -experience that silence with her did not necessarily betoken -unhappiness. Yet even so, he found such silences always unnerving. -To-night he wanted, if she had been in the mood, to laugh, to be jolly, -to bludgeon away his fears. He would not have minded getting slightly -drunk.... But she was silent, brooding, no doubt, happily, but with a -sadness that was part of her happiness. - -As he passed by the table in the dimly-lit room he knocked over the -large cash-box full of the monies that the boys had banked with him. It -fell on to the floor with a crash which made all the wires in the piano -vibrate. - -"Aren't you careless?" said Helen, quietly, looking round at him. - -He looked at her, then at the cash-box on the floor, and said finally: -"Damn it all! A bit of noise won't harm us. This isn't a funeral." - -He said it sharply, exasperated, as if he were just trivially enraged. -After he had said it he stared at her, waiting for her to say something. -But she made no answer, and after a long pause he solemnly picked up the -cash-box. - - - - -III - - -There came a January morning when he had a sudden and almost intolerable -longing to see Clare. The temperature was below freezing-point, although -the sun was shining out of a clear sky; and he was taking five _alpha_ -in art drawing in a room in which the temperature, by means of the -steamiest of hot-water pipes, had been raised to sixty. His desk was at -the side of a second-floor window, and as he looked out of it he could -see the frost still white on the quadrangle and the housemaids pouring -hot water and ashes on the slippery cloister-steps. He had, first of -all, an urgent desire to be outside in the keen, crisp air, away from -the fugginess of heated class-rooms; then faintly-heard trot of horses -along the Millstead lane set up in him a restlessness that grew as the -hands of his watch slid round to the hour of dismissal. It was a -half-holiday in the afternoon, and he decided to walk up to Dinglay Fen, -taking with him his skates, in case the ice should be thick enough. The -thought of it, cramped up in a stuffy class-room, was a sufficiently -disturbing one. And then, quite suddenly, there came into his longing -for the fresh air and the freedom of the world a secondary -longing--faint at first, and then afterwards stormily insurgent--a -longing for Clare to be with him on his adventures. That was all. He -just wanted her company, the tread of her feet alongside his on the -fenland roads, her answers to his questions, and her questions for him -to answer. It was a strange want, it seemed to him, but a harmless one; -and he saw no danger in it. - -Dismissal-hour arrived, and by that time he was in a curious ferment of -desire. Moreover, his brain had sought out and discovered a piece of -casuistry suitable for his purpose. Had not Clare, on the occasion of -his last visit to her, told him plainly and perhaps significantly that -she would never tell anyone of his visit? And if she would not tell of -that one, why should she of _any one_--any one he might care to make in -the future? And as his only reason for not visiting her was a desire to -please Helen, surely that end was served just as easily if he did visit -her, provided that Helen did not know. There could be no moral iniquity -in lying to Helen in order to save her from unhappiness, and anyway, a -lie to her was at least as honest as her subterfuge had been in order to -learn from him of his last visit. On all sides, therefore, he was able -to fortify himself for the execution of his desire. - -But, said Caution, it would be silly to see her in the daytime, and -out-of-doors, for then they would run the risk of being seen together by -some of the Millstead boys, or the masters, and the affair would pretty -soon come to Helen's ears, along channels that would by no means -minimise it in transmission. Hence again, the necessity to see Clare in -the evenings, and at her house, as before. And at the thought of her -cosy little upstairs sitting-room, with the books and the Persian rugs -and the softly-shaded lamp, he kindled to a new and exquisite -anticipation. - -So, then, he would go up to Dinglay Fen alone that afternoon, wanting -Clare's company, no doubt, but willing to wait for it happily now that -it was to come to him so soon. Nor did he think that there was anything -especially Machiavellian in the plans he had decided upon. - - - - -IV - - -But he saw her sooner than that evening. - -Towards midday the clouds suddenly wrapped up the sky and there began a -tremendous snowstorm that lasted most of the afternoon and prevented the -hockey matches. All hope of skating was thus dispelled, and Speed spent -the afternoon in the drawing-room at Lavery's, combining the marking of -exercise-books with the joyous anticipation of the evening. Then, -towards four o'clock, the sky cleared as suddenly as it had clouded -over, and a red sun shone obliquely over the white and trackless -quadrangle. There was a peculiar brightness that came into the room -through the window that overlooked the snow; a strange unwonted -brightness that kindled a tremulous desire in his heart, a desire -delicate and exquisite, a desire without command in it, but with a -fragile, haunting lure that was more irresistible than command. As he -stood by the window and saw the ethereal radiance of the snow, golden -almost in the rays of the low-hanging sun, he felt that he would -like to walk across the white meadows to Parminters. He wanted -something--something that was not in Millstead, something that, perhaps, -was not in the world. - -He set out, walking briskly, facing the crisp wind till the tears came -into his eyes and rolled down his cold cheeks. Far beyond old Millstead -spire the sun was already sinking into the snow, and all the sky of the -west was shot with streams of pendulous fire. The stalks of the tallest -grasses were clotted with snow which the sun had tried hard to melt and -was now leaving to freeze stiff and crystalline; as the twilight crept -over the earth the wind blew colder and the film of snow lately fallen -made the path over the meadows hard and slippery with ice. - -Then it was that he met Clare; in the middle of the meadows between -Millstead and Parminters, at twilight amidst a waste of untrod snow. Her -face was wonderfully lit with the reflection of the fading whiteness, -that his mind reacted to it as to the sudden brink was in her eyes. - -He felt himself growing suddenly pale; he stopped, silent, without a -smile, as if frozen stiff by the sight of her. - -And she said, half laughing: "Hello, Mr. Speed! You look unusually -grim...." Then she paused, and added in a different voice: "No--on -further observation I think you look ill.... Tell me, what's the -matter?" - -He knew then that he loved her. - -The revelation came on him so sharply, so acidly, with such overwhelming -and uncompromising directness, that his mind reacted to it as to the -sudden brink of a chasm. He saw the vast danger of his position. He saw -the stupendous fool he had been. He saw, as if some mighty veil had been -pulled aside, the stream of tragedy sweeping him on to destruction. And -he stopped short, all the manhood in him galvanised into instant -determination. - -He replied, smiling: "I'm _feeling_ perfectly well, anyway. Beautiful -after the snowstorm, isn't it?" - -"Yes." - -It was so clear, so ominously clear that she would stop to talk to him -if he would let her. - -Therefore he said, curtly: "I'm afraid it's spoilt all the chances of -skating, though.... Pity, isn't it? Well, I won't keep you in the -cold--one needs to walk briskly and keep on walking, doesn't one? Good -night!" - -"Good night," she said simply. - -Through the fast gathering twilight they went their several ways. When -he reached Parminters it was quite dark. He went to the _Green Man_ and -had tea in the cosy little firelit inn-parlour with a huge Airedale dog -for company. Somehow, he felt happier, now that he knew the truth and -was facing it. And by the time he reached Lavery's on the way home he -was treating the affair almost jauntily. After all, there was a very -simple and certain cure for even the most serious attack of the ailment -which he had diagnosed himself as possessing. He must not see Clare -again. Never again. No, not even once. How seriously he was taking -himself, he thought. Then he laughed, and wondered how he had been so -absurd. For it was absurd, incredibly absurd, to suppose himself even -remotely in love with Clare! It was unthinkable, impossible, no more to -be feared than the collapse of the top storey of Lavery's into the -basement. He was a fool, a stupid, self-analysing, self-suspecting fool. -He entered Lavery's scorning himself very thoroughly, as much for his -cowardly decision not to see Clare again as for his baseless suspicion -that he was growing fond of her. - - - - -CHAPTER THREE - - -I - - -Why was it that whenever he had had any painful scene with Helen the -yearning came over him to go and visit Clare, not to complain or to -confess or to ask advice, but merely to talk on the most ordinary topics -in the world? It was as if Helen drew out of him all the strength and -vitality he possessed, leaving him debilitated, and that he craved the -renewal of himself that came from Clare and from Clare alone. - -The painful scenes came oftener now. They were not quarrels; they were -worse; they were strange, aching, devitalising dialogues in which Helen -cried passionately and worked herself into a state of nervous emotion -that dragged Speed against his will into the hopeless vortex. Often when -he was tired after the day's work the mere fervour of her passion would -kindle in him some poignant emotion, some wrung-out pity, that was, as -it were, the last shred of his soul; when he had burned that to please -her he was nothing but dry ashes, desiring only tranquillity. But her -emotional resources seemed inexhaustible. And when she had scorched up -the last combustible fragment of him there was nothing left for him to -do but to act a part. - -When he realised that he was acting he realised also that he had been -acting for a long while; indeed, that he could not remember when he had -begun to act. Somehow, she lured him to it; made insatiable demands upon -him that could not be satisfied without it. His acting had become almost -a real part of him; he caught himself saying and doing things which came -quite spontaneously, even though they were false. The trait of artistry -in him made him not merely an actor but an accomplished actor; but the -strain of it was immense. And sometimes, when he was alone, he wished -that he might some time break under it, so that she might find out the -utmost truth. - -Still, of course, it was Clare that was worrying her. She kept insisting -that he wanted Clare more than he wanted her, and he kept denying it, -and she obviously liked to hear him denying it, although she kept -refusing to believe him. And as a simple denial would never satisfy her, -he had perforce to elaborate his denials, until they were not so much -denials as elaborately protestant speeches in which energetically -expressed affection for her was combined with subtle disparagement of -Clare. As time went on her demands increased, and the kind of denial -that would have satisfied her a fortnight before was no longer -sufficient to pacify her for a moment. He would say, passionately: "My -little darling Helen, all I want is you--why do you keep talking about -Clare? I'm tired of hearing the name. It's Helen I want, my old darling -Helen." He became eloquent in this kind of speech. - -But sometimes, in the midst of his acting an awful, hollow moment of -derision would come over him; a moment when he secretly addressed -himself: You hypocrite. You don't mean a word of all this! Why do you -say it? What good is it if it pleases her if it isn't true? Can you--are -you prepared to endure these nightly exhibitions of extempore -play-acting for ever? Mustn't the end come some day, and what is to be -gained by the postponement of it? - -Then the hollow, dreadful, moment would leave him, and he would reply in -defence of himself: I love Helen, although the continual protestation of -it is naturally wearisome. If she can only get rid of the obsession -about Clare we shall live happily and without this emotional ferment. -Therefore, it is best that I should help her to get rid of it as much as -I can. And if I were to protest my love for her weakly I should hinder -and not help her. - -Sometimes, after he had been disparaging Clare, a touch of real vibrant -emotion would make him feel ashamed of himself. And then, in a few -sharp, anguished sentences he would undo all the good that hours of -argument and protestation had achieved. He would suddenly defend Clare, -wantonly, obtusely, stupidly aware all the time of the work he was -undoing, yet, somehow, incapable of stopping the words that came into -his mouth. And they were not eloquent words; they were halting, -diffident, often rather silly. "Clare's all right," he would say -sometimes, and refuse to amplify or qualify. "I don't know why we keep -dragging her in so much. She's never done us any harm and I've nothing -against her." - -"So. You love her." - -"Love her? Rubbish! I don't love her. But I don't _hate_ her--surely you -don't expect me to do that!" - -"No, I don't expect you to do that. I expect you to marry her, though, -some day." - -"Marry her! Good God, what madness you talk, Helen! I don't want to -marry her, and if I did she wouldn't want to marry me! And besides, it -happens that I'm already married. That's an obstacle, isn't it?" - -"There's such a thing as divorce." - -"You can't get a divorce just because you want one." - -"I know that." - -"And besides, my dear Helen, who wants a divorce? Do you?" - -"Do _you_?" - -"Of course I don't." - -"Kenneth, I know it seems to you that I'm terribly unreasonable. But it -isn't any satisfaction to me that you just don't _see_ Clare. What I -want is that you shan't want to see her." - -"Well, I don't want to see her." - -"That's a lie." - -"Well--well--what's the good of me telling you I don't want to see her -if you can't believe me?" - -"No good at all, Kenneth. That's why it's so awful." - -He said then, genuinely: "Is it very awful, Helen?" - -"Yes. You don't know what it's like to feel that all the time one's -happiness in the world is hanging by a thread. Kenneth, all the time I'm -watching you I can see Clare written in your mind. I _know_ you want -her. I know she can give you heaps that I can't give you. I know that -our marriage, was a tragic mistake. We're not suited to one another. We -make each other frightfully, frightfully miserable. More miserable than -there's any reason for, but still, that doesn't help. We're misfits, -somehow, and though we try ever so hard we shall never be any better -until we grow old and are too tired for love any more. Then we shall be -too disinterested to worry. It was _my_ fault, Kenneth--I oughtn't to -have married you. Father wanted me to, because your people have a lot of -money, but I only married you because I loved you, Kenneth. It was silly -of me, Kenneth, but it's the truth!" - -"Ah!" So the mystery was solved. He softened to her now that he heard -her simple confession; he felt that he loved her, after all. - -She went on, sadly: "I'm not going to stay with you, Kenneth. I'm not -going to ruin your life. You won't be able to keep me. I'd rather you be -happy and not have anything to do with me." - -Then he began one of his persuasive speeches. The beginning of it was -sincere, but as he used up all the genuine emotion that was in him, he -drew more and more on his merely histrionic capacities. He pleaded, he -argued, he implored. Once the awful thought came to him: Supposing I -cried? Doubt as to his capacity to cry impressively decided him against -the suggestion.... And once the more awful thought came to him: -Supposing one of these times I do not succeed in patching things up? -Supposing we do agree to separate? Do I really want to win all the time -I am wrestling so hard for victory? - -And at the finish, when he had succeeded once again, and when she was -ready for all the passionate endearments that he was too tired to take -pleasure in giving, he felt: This cannot last. It is killing me. It is -killing her too. God help us both.... - - - - -II - - -One day he realised that he was a failure. He had had some disciplinary -trouble with the fifth form and had woefully lost his temper. There had -followed a mild sort of scene; within an hour it had been noised all -over the school, so that he knew what the boys and Masters were thinking -of when they looked at him. It was then that the revelation of failure -came upon him. - -But, worst of all, there grew in him wild and ungovernable hates. He -hated the Head, he hated Pritchard, he hated Smallwood, he hated, most -intensely of all, perhaps, Burton. Burton was too familiar. Not that -Speed disliked familiarity; it was rather that in Burton's familiarity -he always diagnosed contempt. He wished Burton would leave. He was -getting too old. - -They had a stupid little row about some trivial affair of house -discipline. Speed had found some Juniors playing hockey along the long -basement corridor. True that they were using only tennis balls; -nevertheless it seemed to Speed the sort of thing that had to be -stopped. He was not aware that "basement hockey" was a time-honoured -custom of Lavery's, and that occasional broken panes of glass were paid -for by means of a "whip round." If he had known that he would have made -no interference, for he was anxious not to make enemies. But it seemed -to him that this extempore hockey-playing was a mere breach of ordinary -discipline; accordingly he forbade it and gave a slight punishment to -the participators. - -Back in his room there came to him within a little while, Burton, -eagerly solicitous about something or other. - -"Well, what is it, Burton?" The mere sight of the shambling old fellow -enraged Speed now. - -"If you'll excuse the libutty, sir. I've come on be'alf of a few of the -Juniors you spoke to about the basement 'ockey, sir." - -"I don't see what business it is of yours, Burton." - -"No, sir, it ain't any business of mine, that's true, but I thought -perhaps you'd listen to me. In fact, I thought maybe you didn't know -that it was an old 'ouse custom, sir, durin' the 'ockey term. I bin at -Millstead fifty-one year come next July, sir, an' I never remember an -'ockey term without it, sir. Old Mr. Hardacre used to allow it, an' so -did Mr. Lavery 'imself. In fact, some evenings, sir, Mr. Lavery used to -come down an' watch it, sir." - -Speed went quite white with anger. He was furiously annoyed with himself -for having again trod on one of these dangerous places; he was also -furious with Burton for presuming to tell him his business. Also, a -slight scuffle outside the door of the room suggested to him that Burton -was a hired emissary of the Juniors, and that the latter were -eavesdropping at that very moment. He could not give way. - -"I don't know why you think I should be so interested in the habits of -my predecessors, Burton," he said, with carefully controlled voice. "I'm -sure it doesn't matter to me in the least what Hardacre and Lavery used -to do. I'm housemaster at present, and if I say there must be no more -basement hockey then there must be no more. That's plain, isn't it?" - -"Well, sir, I was only warning you--" - -"Thanks, I don't require warning. You take too much on yourself, -Burton." - -The old man went suddenly red. Speed was not prepared for the suddenness -of it. Burton exclaimed, hardly coherent in the midst of his -indignation: "That's the first time I've bin spoke to like that by a -housemaster of Lavery's! Fifty years I've bin 'ere an' neither Mr. -Hardacre nor Mr. Lavery ever insulted me to my face! They were -gentlemen, they were!" - -"Get out!" said Speed, rising from his chair quickly. "Get out of here! -You're damnably impertinent! Get out!" - -He approached Burton and Burton did not move. He struck Burton very -lightly on the shoulder. The old man stumbled against the side of the -table and then fell heavily on to the floor. Speed was passionately -frightened. He wondered for the moment if Burton were dead. Then Burton -began to groan. Simultaneously the door opened and a party of Juniors -entered, ostensibly to make some enquiry or other, but really, as Speed -could see, to find out what was happening. - -"What d'you want?" said Speed, turning on them. "I didn't tell you to -come in. Why didn't you knock?" - -They had the answer ready. "We did knock, sir, and then we heard a noise -as if somebody had fallen down and we thought you might be ill, sir." - -Burton by this time had picked himself up and was shambling out of the -room, rather lame in one leg. - -The days that followed were not easy ones for Speed. He knew he had been -wrong. He ought never to have touched Burton. People were saying "Fancy -hitting an old man over sixty!" Burton had told everybody about it. The -Common-Room knew of it. The school doctor knew of it, because Burton had -been up to the Sick-room to have a bruise on his leg attended. Helen -knew of it, and Helen rather obviously sided with Burton. - -"You shouldn't have hit an old man," she said. - -"I know I shouldn't," replied Speed. "I lost my temper. But can't you -see the provocation I had? Am I to put up with a man's impertinence -merely because he's old?" - -"You're getting hard, Kenneth. You used to be kind to people, but you're -not kind now. You're _never_ kind now." - -In his own heart he had to admit that it was true. He had given up being -kind. He was hard, ruthless, unmerciful, and God knew why, perhaps. Yet -it was all outside, he hoped. Surely he was not hard through and -through; surely the old Speed who was kind and gentle and whom everybody -liked, surely this old self of his was still there, underneath the -hardness that had come upon him lately! - -He said bitterly: "Yes, I'm getting hard, Helen. It's true. And I don't -know the reason." - -She supplied the answer instantly. "It's because of me," she said -quietly. "I'm making you hard. I'm no good for you. You ought to have -married somebody else." - -"No, no!" he protested, vehemently. Then the old routine of argument, -protest, persuasion, and reconciliation took place again. - - - - -III - - -He made up his mind that he would crush the hardness in him, that he -would be the old Speed once more. All his troubles, so it seemed to him, -were the result of being no longer the old Speed. If he could only bring -to life again that old self, perhaps, after sufficient penance, he could -start afresh. He could start afresh with Lavery's, he could start afresh -with Helen; most of all perhaps, he could start afresh with himself. He -_would_ be kind. He would be the secret, inward man he wanted to be, and -not the half-bullying, half-cowardly fellow that was the outside of him. -He prayed, if he had ever prayed in his life, that he might accomplish -the resuscitation. - -It was a dark sombrely windy evening in February; a Sunday evening. He -had gone into chapel with all his newly-made desires and determinations -fresh upon him; he was longing for the quiet calm of the chapel service -that he might cement, so to say, his desires and resolutions into a -sufficiently-welded programme of conduct that should be put into -operation immediately. Raggs was playing the organ, so that he was able -to sit undisturbed in the Masters' pew. The night was magnificently -stormy; the wind shrieked continually around the chapel walls and roof; -sometimes he could hear the big elm trees creaking in the Head's garden. -The preacher was the Dean of some-where-or-other; but Speed did not -listen to a word of his sermon, excellent though it might have been. He -was too busy registering decisions. - -The next day he apologized to Burton, rather curtly, because he knew not -any other way. The old man was mollified. Speed did not know what to say -to him after he had apologized; in the end half-a-sovereign passed -between them. - -Then he summoned the whole House and announced equally curtly that he -wished to apologize for attempting to break a recognised House custom. -"I've called you all together just to make a short announcement. When I -stopped the basement hockey I was unaware that it had been a custom in -Lavery's for a long while. In those circumstances I shall allow it to go -on, and I apologize for the mistake. The punishments for those who took -part are remitted. That's all. You may go now." - -With Helen it was not so easy. - -He said to her, on the same night, when the house had gone up to its -dormitories: "Helen, I've been rather a brute lately. I'm sorry. I'm -going to be different." - -She said: "I wish I could be different too." - -"Different? _You_ different? What do you mean?" - -"I wish I could make you fond of me again." He was about to protest with -his usual eagerness and with more than his usual sincerity, but she held -up her hand to stop him. "Don't say anything!" she cried, passionately. -"We shall only argue. I don't want to argue any more. Don't say anything -at all, please, Kenneth!" - -"But--Helen--why not?" - -"Because there's nothing more to be said. Because I don't believe -anything that you tell me, and because I don't want to deceive myself -into thinking I do, any more." - -"Helen!" - -She went on staring silently into the fire, as usual, but when he came -near to her she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. "I don't -believe you love me, Kenneth. Goodness knows why I kiss you. I suppose -it's just because I like doing it, that's all. Now don't say anything to -me. Kiss me if you like, but don't speak. I hate you when you begin to -talk to me." - -He laughed. - -She turned on him angrily, suddenly like a tiger. "What are you laughing -at? I don't see any joke." - -"Neither do I. But I wanted to laugh--for some reason. Oh, if I mustn't -talk to you, mayn't I even laugh? Is there nothing to be done except -kiss and be kissed?" - -"You've started to talk. I hate you now." - -"I shouldn't have begun to talk if you'd let me laugh." - -"You're hateful." - -"What--because I laughed? Don't you think it's rather funny that a man -may kiss his wife and yet not be allowed to talk to her?" - -"I think it's tragic." - -"Tragic things are usually funny if you're in the mood that I'm in." - -"It's your own fault that you're in such a hateful mood." - -"Is it my fault? I wasn't in the mood when I came into this room." - -"Then it's my fault, I presume?" - -"I didn't say so. God knows whose fault it is. But does it matter very -much?" - -"Yes, I think it does." - -He couldn't think of anything to say. He felt all the strength and -eagerness and determination and hope for the future go out of him and -leave him aching and empty. And into the void--not against his will, for -his will did not exist at the time--came Clare. - - - - -IV - - -Once again he knew that he loved her. A storm came over him, furious as -the storm outside! he knew that he loved and wanted her, passionately -this time, because his soul was aching. To him she meant the easing of -all the strain within him; he could not think how it had been possible -for him to go on so long without knowing it. Helen and he were like -currents of different voltages; but with Clare he would be miraculously -matched. For the first time in his life he recognised definitely and -simply that his marriage with Helen had been a mistake. - -But what could he do? For with the realisation of his love for Clare -came the sudden, blinding onrush of pity for Helen, pity more terrible -than he had ever felt before; pity that made him sick with the keenness -of it. If he could only be ruthless and leave her with as few words and -as little explanation as many men left their wives! But he could not. -Somehow, in some secret and subtle way, he was tied to her. He knew that -he could never leave her. Something in their intimate relationship had -forged bonds that would always hold him to her, even though the spirit -of him longed to be free. He would go on living with her and pitying her -and making her and himself miserable. - -He went out into the storm of wind for a few moments before going to -bed. Never, till then, had Lavery's seemed to desolate, so mightily -cruel. He walked in sheer morbidness of spirit to the pavilion steps -where he and Helen, less than a year ago, had thought themselves the -happiest couple in the world. There was no moonlight now, and the -pavilion was a huge dark shadow. Poor Helen--_poor_ Helen! He wished he -had never met her. - - - - -CHAPTER FOUR - - -I - - -The torture of his soul went on. He lost grip of his House; he was -unpopular now, and he knew it. Smallwood and other influential members -of the school openly cut him in the street. A great silence (so he often -imagined, but it could not have been really so) fell upon the Masters' -Common-Room whenever he entered it. Pritchard, so he heard, was in the -habit of making cheap jokes against him with his class. Even Clanwell -took him aside one evening and asked him why he had dropped the habit of -coming up to coffee. "Why don't you come up for a chat sometime?" he -asked, and from the queer look in his eyes Speed knew well enough what -the chat was likely to be about. "Oh, I'm busy," he excused himself. He -added: "Perhaps I'll drop in sometime, though." "Yes, do," said Clanwell -encouragingly. But Speed never did. - -Then one morning Speed was summoned into the dark study. The Head smiled -and invited him to sit down. He even said, with ominous hospitality: -"Have a cigarette--um, no?" and pushed the cigarette-box an inch or so -away from him. Then he went on, unbuttoning the top button of his -clerical coat: "I hope--um--you will not think me--um--impertinent--if -I mention a matter which has--um--which has not reached my -ears--um--through an official channel. You had, I--um--I -believe,--an--um--altercation with one of the house-porters the other -day. Am I--am I right?" - -"Yes, quite right." - -"Well, now, Mr. Speed--such--um--affairs are rather undignified, don't -you think? I'm not--um--apportioning blame--oh, no, not in any way, but -I do--um, yes--I most certainly do think that a housemaster should avoid -such incidents if he can possibly do so. No--um--no personal reflection -on you at all, Mr. Speed--merely my advice to you, as a somewhat elderly -man to an--um, yes--to a friend. Yes, a friend. Perhaps I might add -more--um--significantly--to an--um--son-in-law." - -He smiled a wide, sly smile. Speed clenched his hands on his knees. The -dark study grew almost intolerable. He felt he would like to take -Ervine's mottled neck in his hands and wring it--carefully and -calculatingly.... - -When he was outside the room, in the darkness between the inner and the -outer doors, his resentment rose to fever-pitch. He stopped, battling -with it, half inclined to re-enter the study and make a scene, yet -realising with the sane part of him that he could not better his -position by so doing. Merely as an outlet for tempestuous indignation, -however, the idea of returning to the fray attracted him, and he paused -in the darkness, arguing with himself. Then all at once his attention -was rivetted by the sound, sharp and clear, of Mrs. Ervine's voice. She -had entered the study from the other door, and he heard soft steps -treading across the carpet. "Did you tell him?" he heard her say. And -the Head's voice boomed back: "Yes, my dear. Um yes--I told him." - -A grim, cautious smile crept over Speed's mouth. He put his ear to the -hinge of the inner door and listened desperately. - -He heard again the voice of Mrs. Ervine. "Did you tell him he might have -to quit Lavery's at the end of the term?" - -"I--um--well--I didn't exactly put it to him--so--um--so definitely. It -seemed to me there was no--um--no necessity. He may be all right, even -yet, you know. - -"He won't. He's too young. And he's lost too much ground already." - -"I always thought he was too--um--too youthful, my dear. But you -overruled my----" - -"Well, and you know why I did, don't you? Oh, I've no patience with you. -Nothing's done unless I do it." - -"My dear, I--um--I assure you----" - - -He heard footsteps approaching along the outside corridor and feared -that it might be people coming to see the Head. In that case they would -pull open the outer door and find him eavesdropping. That would never -do. He quietly pushed the outer door and emerged into the corridor. A -small boy, seeing him, asked timidly: "Is the Head in, sir?" Speed -replied grimly: "Yes, he's in, but he's busy at present." - -After all, he had heard enough. Behind the Head, ponderous and archaic, -stood now the sinister figure of Mrs. Ervine, mistress of malevolent -intrigue. In a curious half-humorous, half-contemptuous sense, he felt -sorry for the Head. Poor devil!--everlastingly chained to Millstead, -always working the solemn, rhythmic treadmill, with a wife beside him as -sharp as a knife-edge.... Speed walked across to Lavery's, pale-faced -and smiling. - - - - -II - - -The Annual Athletic Sports. - -It was raining hard. He stood by the tape, stopwatch in hand, -distributing measured encouragement and congratulation, and fulfilling -his allotted rôle of timekeeper. "Well run, Herbert," he managed to say -with a show of interest. "Not bad, indeed, sir ... eleven and two-fifths -seconds." ... "Well done, Roberts.... Hard luck, Hearnshaw--pity you -didn't sprint harder at the finish, eh? ... Herbert first, Roberts -second, Hearnshaw third." - -The grass oozed with water and the cinder-track with blackish slime; he -shivered as he stood, and whenever he stooped the water fell over the -brim of his hat and blurred the print on his sports-programme. It was -hard to distinguish rain from perspiration on the faces of the runners. -The bicycles used in the slow-bicycle race lay in a dripping and rusting -pile against a tree-trunk; crystal raindrops hung despairingly from the -out-stretched tape. There seemed something unnecessarily, gratuitously, -even fatuously dismal about the entire procedure; the weight of -dismalness pressed heavily on him--heavily--heavily--and more heavily as -the afternoon crawled by. Yet he gave a ghastly smile as he marked a wet -note-book with a wet copying pencil and exclaimed: "Well run, Lister -_Secundus_. Four minutes and forty-two and a fifth seconds.... Next -race, please. All candidates for the Quarter-Mile Handicap. First -Heat.... Answer please.... Arnold, Asplin, Brooks, Carmichael, -Cavendish, Cawstone, Primus, Felling, Fyfield...." - -But at last there came the end of the dreary afternoon, when grey dusk -began to fall somberly upon a grey world, when the last race had been -mournfully held, and his outdoor work was over. Mechanically he was -collecting into a pile the various impedimenta of the obstacle race; he -was alone, for the small, dripping crowd of sight-seers had gone over to -the other side of the pavilion to witness the putting of the weight. -Pritchard's job, he reflected. Pritchard's staccato tenor voice rose -above the murmur: "Thirty-eight feet four inches.... Excellent, -Robbins...." And then the scrape of the spade smoothing over the soft, -displaced mud, a sound that seemed to Speed to strike the note of utter -and inextinguishable misery. - -Old Millstead bells began to chime the hour of five o'clock. - -And then a voice quite near him said: "Well, Mr. Speed?" - -He knew that voice. He turned round sharply. Clare! - -Never did he forget the look of her at that moment. He thought -afterwards (though it could not have been more than imagination) that as -she spoke the downfalling rain increased to a torrent; he saw her -cheeks, pink and shining, and the water glistening on the edges of her -hair. She wore a long mackintosh that reached almost to her heels, and a -sou'wester pulled over her ears and forehead. But the poise of her as -she stood, so exquisitely serene with the rain beating down upon her, -struck some secret chord in his being which till that moment had been -dumb. - -He dropped the sacks into a pool of water and stared at her in wistful -astonishment. - -"You've dropped your things," she said. - -He was staring at her so intently that he seemed hardly to comprehend -her words. The chord in him that had been struck hurt curiously, like a -muscle long unused. When at last his eyes fell to the sopping bundle at -his feet he just shrugged his shoulders and muttered: "Oh, _they_ don't -matter. I'll leave them." Then, recollecting that he had not yet given -her any greeting, he made some conventional remark about the weather. - -Then she made another conventional remark about the weather. - -Then he said, curiously: "We don't see so much of each other nowadays, -do we?" - -To which she replied: "No. I wonder why? Are they overworking you?" - -"Not that," he answered. - -"Then I won't guess any other reasons." - -He said jokingly: "I shall come down to the town and give you another of -those surprise visits one of these evenings." - -The crowd were returning from watching the putting of the weight. She -made to leave him, saying as she did so: "_Yes_, do. You like a talk, -don't you?" - -"Rather!" he exclaimed, almost boyishly, as she went away. - -_Almost boyishly_! Even a moment of her made a difference in him. - - - - -III - - -That evening, for the first time in his life, he was "ragged." He was -taking preparation in the Big Hall. As soon as the School began to enter -he could see that some mischief was on foot. Nor was it long in -beginning to show itself. Hardly had the last-corner taken his seat when -a significant rustle of laughter at the rear of the Hall warned him that -danger was near. He left his seat on the rostrum and plunged down the -aisle to the place whence the laughter had come. More laughter.... He -saw something scamper swiftly across the floor, amidst exclamations of -feigned alarm. Someone had let loose a mouse. - -He was furious with anger. Nothing angered him more than any breach of -discipline, and this breach of discipline was obviously an insult to him -personally. They had never "ragged" him before; they were "ragging" him -now because they disliked him. He saw the faces of all around him -grinning maliciously. - -"Anyone who laughs has a hundred lines." - -A sharp brave laugh from somewhere--insolently defiant. - -"Who was it that laughed then?" - -No answer. - -Then, amidst the silence, another laugh, a comic, lugubriously pitched -laugh that echoed weirdly up to the vaulted roof. - -He was white now--quite white with passion. - -"Was that you, Slingsby?" - -A smart spot! It _was_ Slingsby, and Slingsby, recognising the rules of -civilised warfare even against Speed, replied, rather sheepishly: "Yes, -sir." - -"A thousand lines and detention for a week!" - -The school gasped a little, for the punishment was sufficiently -enormous. Evidently Speed was not to be trifled with. There followed a -strained silence for over ten minutes, and at last Speed went back to -his official desk feeling that the worst was over and that he had -successfully quelled the rebellion. Then, quite suddenly, the whole -building was plunged into darkness. - -He rose instantly shouting: "Who tampered with those switches?" - -He had hardly finished his query when pandemonium began. Desk-lids fell; -electric torches prodded their rays upon scenes of wild confusion; a -splash of ink fell on his neck as he stood; voices shrieked at him on -all sides. "Who had a fight with Burton?" "Hit one your own size." "Oh, -Kenneth, meet me at the pavilion steps!" "Three cheers for the -housemaster who knocked the porter down!" He heard them all. Somebody -called, sincerely and without irony: "Three cheers for old Burton!"--and -these were lustily given. Somebody grabbed hold of him by the leg; he -kicked out vigorously, careless in his fury what harm he did. The sickly -odour of sulphuretted hydrogen began to pervade the atmosphere. - -He heard somebody shriek out: "Not so much noise, boys--the Head'll come -in!" And an answer came: "Well, he won't mind much." - -He stood there in the darkness for what seemed an age. He was petrified, -not with fear, but with a strange mingling of fury and loathing. He -tried to speak, and found he had no voice; nor, anyhow, could he have -made himself heard above the din. - -Something hit him a terrific blow on the forehead. He was dazed. He -staggered back, feeling for his senses. He wondered vaguely who had hit -him and what he had been hit with. Probably a heavy book.... The pain -seemed momentarily to quench his anger, so that he thought: This is not -ordinary "ragging." They hate me. They detest me. They want to hurt me -if they can.... He felt no anger for them now, only the dreadfulness of -being hated so much by so many people at once. - -He must escape somehow. They might kill him in the dark there if they -found him. He suddenly made his decision and plunged headlong down the -centre aisle towards the door. How many boys he knocked down or trampled -on or struck with his swinging arms as he rushed past he never knew, but -in another moment he was outside, with the cool air of the cloisters -tingling across his bruised head and the pandemonium in the Hall -sounding suddenly distant in his ears. - -In the cloisters he met the Head, walking quickly along with gown -flying in the wind. - -In front of Speed he stopped, breathless and panting. "Um--um--what is -the matter, Mr. Speed? Such an--um--terrible noise--I could--um--hear it -at my dinner-table--and--um--yourself--what has happened to you? Are you -ill? Your head is covered with--um--blood.... What is all the commotion -about?" - -Speed said, with crisp clearness: "Go up into the Hall and find out." - -And he rushed away from the Head, through the echoing cloisters, and -into Lavery's. He washed here, in the public basins, and tied a -handkerchief round the cut on his forehead. He did not disturb Helen, -but left his gown on one of the hooks in the cloak-room and went out -again into the dark and sheltering night, hatless and coatless, and with -fever in his heart. The night was bitterly cold, but he did not feel it; -he went into the town by devious ways, anxious to avoid being seen; when -he was about half-way the parish clock chimed eight. He felt his head; -his handkerchief was already damp on the outside; it must have been a -deep cut. - - - - -IV - - -"Mr. Speed!" she said, full of compassion. A tiny lamp in the corridor -illumined his bandaged head as he walked in. "What on earth has happened -to you? Can you walk up all right?" - -"Yes," he answered, with even a slight laugh. The very presence of her -gave him reassurance. He strode up the steps into the sitting-room and -stood in front of the fire. She followed him and stared at him for a -moment without speaking. Then she said, almost unconcernedly: "Now you -mustn't tell me anything till you've been examined. That looks rather a -deep cut. Now sit down in that chair and let me attend to you. Don't -talk." - -He obeyed her, with a feeling in his heart of ridiculously childish -happiness. He remembered when Helen had once bade him not talk, and how -the demand had then irritated him. Curious that Clare could even copy -Helen exactly and yet be tremendously, vitally different! - -She unwound the bandage, washed the cut, and bandaged it up again in a -clean and workmanlike manner. The deftness of her fingers fascinated -him; he gazed on them as they moved about over his face; he luxuriated -amongst them, as it were. - -At the finish of the operation she gave that sharp instant laugh which, -even after hearing it only a few times, he had somehow thought -characteristic of her. "You needn't worry," she said quietly, and in the -half-mocking tone that was even more characteristic of her than her -laugh. "You're not going to die. Did you think you were? Now tell me how -it happened." - -"You'll smile when I tell you. I was taking prep, and they ragged me. -Somebody switched off the lights and somebody else must have thrown a -book at me. That's all." - -"That's all? It's enough, isn't it? And what made you think I should -smile at such an affair?" - -"I don't know. In a certain sense it's, perhaps, a little funny.... -D'you know, lately I've had a perfectly overwhelming desire to laugh at -things that other people wouldn't see anything funny in. The other night -Helen told me not to talk to her because she couldn't believe a word I -said, but she didn't mind if I kissed her. I laughed at that--I couldn't -help it. And now, when I think of an hour ago with all the noise and -commotion and flash-lights and stink-bombs and showers of ink--oh, God, -it was damned funny!" - -He burst into gusts of tempestuous, half-hysterical laughter. - -"Stop laughing!" she ordered. She added quietly: "Yes, you look as if -you've been in an ink-storm--it's all over your coat and collar. What -made them rag you?" - -"They hate me." - -"Why?" - -He pondered, made suddenly serious, and then said: "God knows." - -She did not answer for some time. Then she suddenly went over to the -china cupboard and began taking out crockery. Once again his eyes had -something to rivet themselves upon; this time her small, immensely -capable hands as she busied herself with the coffee-pot. "And you -thought I should find it amusing?" she said, moving about the whole -time. As she continued with the preparations she kept up a running -conversation. "Well, I _don't_ find it amusing. I think it's very -serious. You came here last summer term and at first you were well -liked, fairly successful, and happy. Now, two terms later, you're -apparently detested, unsuccessful, and--well, not so happy as you were, -eh? What's been the cause of it all? You say God knows. Well, if He does -know, He won't tell you, so you may as well try to find out for -yourself." - -And she went on: "I don't want to rub it in. Forgive me if I am doing -so." - -Something in the calm kindliness of her voice made him suddenly bury his -head in his hands and begin to sob. He gasped, brokenly: "All right.... -Clare.... But the future.... Oh, God--is it _all_ black? ... -What--_what_ can I do, Clare?" - -She replied, immensely practical: "You must control yourself. You're -hysterical--laughing one minute and crying the next. Coffee will be -ready in a while--it'll quiet your nerves. And the future will be all -right if only you won't be as big a fool as you have been." - -Then he smiled. "You _do_ tell me off, don't you?" he said. - -"No more than you need.... But we're talking too much. I don't want you -to talk a lot--not just yet. Sit still while I play the piano to you." - -She played some not very well-known composition of Bach, and though when -she began he was all impatience to talk to her, he found himself later -on becoming tranquil, perfectly content to listen to her as long as she -cared to go on. She played quite well, and with just that robust -unsentimentality which Bach required. He wondered if she had been clever -enough to know that her playing would tranquillise him. - -When she had finished, the coffee was ready and they had a cosy little -armchair snack intermingled with conversation that reminded him of his -Cambridge days. He would have been perfectly happy if he had not been -burdened with such secrets. He wanted to tell her everything--to show -her all his life. And yet whenever he strove to begin the confession she -twisted the conversation very deftly out of his reach. - -At last he said: "I've got whole heaps to tell you, Clare. Why don't you -let me begin?" - -She looked ever so slightly uncomfortable. - -"Do you _really_ want to begin?" - -"Yes." - -"Begin then." - -But it was not so easy for him to begin after her straightforward order -to do so. She kept her brown eyes fixed unswervingly on him the whole -time, as if defying him to tell anything but the utterest truth. He -paused, stammered, and then laughed uncomfortably. - -"There's a lot to tell you, and it's not easy." - -"Then don't trouble. I'm not asking you to." - -"But I want to." - -She said, averting her eyes from him for a moment: "It's not really that -you want to begin yourself, it's that you want _me_ to begin, isn't it?" - -Then he said: "Yes, I wanted you to begin if you would. I wanted you to -ask me a question you used to ask me?" - -"What's that?" - -"Whether I'm happy ... or not. I always used to say yes, and since that -answer has become untrue you've never asked me the question." - -"Perhaps because I knew the answer had become untrue." - -"You knew? You _knew_! Tell me, what did you know? What do you know -now?" - -She said, with a curious change in the quality of her voice: "My dear -man, I _know_. I understand you. Haven't you found out that? I know, -I've known for a long time that you haven't been happy." - -Suddenly he was in the thick of confession to her. He was saying, almost -wildly, in his eagerness: "Helen and I--we don't get on well together." -Then he stopped, and a wild, ecstatic fear of what he was doing rose -suddenly to panic-point and then was lulled away by Clare's eternally -calm eyes. "She doesn't understand me--in fact--I don't really think we -either of us understand the other." - -"No?" she said, interrogatively, and he shook his head slowly and -replied: "I think that perhaps explains--chiefly--why I am unhappy. -We--Helen and I--we don't know quite what--what to do with each other. -Do you know what I mean? We don't exactly quarrel. It's more that we try -so hard to be kind that--that it hurts us. We are cruel to each -other.... Oh, not actually, you know, but in a sort of secret inside -way.... Oh, Clare, Clare, the truth of it is, I can't bear her, and she -can't bear me!" - -"Perhaps I know what you mean. But she loves you?" - -"Oh, yes, she loves me." - -"And you love her?" - -He looked her straight in the eyes and slowly shook his head. - -"I used to. But I don't now. It's awful--awful--but it's the honest -truth." - -It seemed to him that his confession had reached the vital crest and -that all else would be easy and natural now that he had achieved thus -far. He went on: "Clare, I've tried to make myself think I love her. -I've tried all methods to be happy with her. I've given in to her in -little matters and big matters to try to make her happy, I've isolated -myself from other people just to please her, I've offered -anything--_everything_ to give her the chance of making me love her as I -used to! But it's not been a bit of use." - -"Of course it hasn't." - -"Why of course?" - -"Because you can't love anybody by trying. Any more than you can stop -loving anybody by trying... Do you know, I've never met anybody who's -enraged me as much as you have." - -"Enraged you?" - -"Yes. What right have I to be enraged with you, you'll say, but never -mind that. I've been enraged with you because you've been such a -continual disappointment ever since I've known you. This is a time for -straight talking, isn't it? So don't be offended. When you first came to -Millstead you were just a jolly schoolboy--nothing more, though you -probably thought you were--you were brimful of schoolboyish ideals and -schoolboyish enthusiasms. Weren't you? Nobody could help liking you--you -were so--so _nice_--_nice_ is the word, isn't it?" - -"You're mocking me." - -"Not at all. I mean it. You _were_ nice, and I liked you very much. -Compared with the average fussily jaded Master at a public-school you -were all that was clean and hopeful and energetic. I wondered what would -become of you. I wondered whether you'd become a sarcastic devil like -Ransome, a vulgar little counter-jumper like Pritchard, or a beefy, -fighting parson like Clanwell. I knew that whatever happened you -wouldn't stay long as you were. But I never thought that you'd become -what you are. Good God, man, you _are_ a failure, aren't you?" - -"What's the good of rubbing it in?" - -"This much good--that I want you to be quite certain of the depth you've -fallen to. A man of your sort soon forgets his mistakes. That's why he -makes so many of them twice over." - -"Well--admitting that I am a failure, what then? What advice have you to -offer me?" - -"I advise you to leave Millstead." - -"When?" - -"At the end of the term." - -"And where shall I go?" - -"Anywhere except to another school." - -"What shall I do?" - -"Anything except repeat your mistakes." - -"And Helen?" - -"Take her with you." - -"But she is one of my mistakes." - -"I know that. But you've got to put up with it." - -"And if I can't?" - -"Then I don't know." - -He suddenly plunged his head into his hands and was silent. Her ruthless -summing-up of the situation calmed him, made him ready for the future, -but filled that future with a dreariness that was awful to contemplate. - -After a while he rose, saying: "Well, I suppose you're right. I'll go -back now. God knows what'll happen to me between now and the end of -term. But I guess I'll manage somehow. Anyway, I'm much obliged for your -first-aid. Good-bye--don't trouble to let me out--I know how the door -works." - -"I want to lock up after you're gone," she said. - -In the dark lobby the sudden terror of what he had done fell on him like -a crushing weight. He had told Clare that he did not love Helen. And -then, following upon that, came a new and more urgent terror--he had not -told Clare that it was she whom he loved. What was the use of telling -her the one secret without the other?--Perhaps he would never see Clare -again. This might be his last chance. If he did not take it or make it -the torture of his self-reproaching would be unendurable. - -"You came without any coat and hat," she observed. "Let me lend you my -raincoat--it's no different from a man's." - -He perceived instantly that if he borrowed it he would have an excuse -for visiting her again in order to return it. And perhaps then, more -easily than now, he could tell her the secret that was almost bursting -his heart. - -"Thanks," he said, gratefully, and as she helped him into the coat she -said: "Ask the boy to bring it back here when he calls for the orders in -the morning." - -He could have cried at her saying that. The terror came on him -feverishly, intolerably, the terror of leaving her, of living the rest -of life without a sight or a knowledge of her. He could not bear it; the -longing was too great--he could not put it away from him. And she was -near him for the last time, her hands upon his arms as she helped him -into the coat. She did not want him to call again. It was quite plain. - -He had to speak. - -He said, almost at the front door: "Clare, do you know the real reason -why I don't love Helen any more?" - -He thought he heard her catch her breath sharply. Then, after a pause, -she said rather curtly: "Yes, of course I do. Don't tell me." - -"What!" In the darkness he was suddenly alive. "_What_! You know! You -know the real reason! You _don't_! You think you do, but you don't! I'll -warrant you don't! You don't know everything!" - -And the calm voice answered: "I know everything about you." - -"You don't know that I love you!" (_There_! It was spoken now; a great -weight was taken off his heart, no matter whether she should be annoyed -or not! His heart beat wildly in exultation at having thrown off its -secret at long last.) - -She answered: "Yes, I know that. But I didn't want you to tell me." - -And he was amazed. His mind, half stupefied, accepted her knowledge of -his love for her almost as if it were a confession of her returned love -for him. It was as if the door were suddenly opened to everything he had -not dared to think of hitherto. He knew then that his mind was full of -dreaming of her, wild, passionate, tumultuous dreaming, dreaming that -lured him to the edge of wonderland and precarious adventure. But this -dreaming was unique in his experience; no slothful half-pathetic basking -in the fluency of his imagination, no easy inclination to people a world -with his own fancies rather than bridge the gulf that separated himself -from the true objectiveness of others; this was something new and -immense, a hungering of his soul for reality, a stirring of the depths -in him, a monstrous leaping renewal of his youth. No longer was his -imagination content to describe futile, sensual curves within the abyss -of his own self, returning cloyingly to its starting-point; it soared -now, embarked on a new quest, took leave of self entirely, drew him, -invisibly and incalculably, he knew not where. He knew not where, but he -knew with whom.... This strange, magnetic power that she possessed over -him drew him not merely to herself, but to the very fountain of life; -she was life, and he had never known life before. The reach of his soul -to hers was the kindling touch of two immensities, something at once -frantic and serene, simple and subtle, solemn and yet deep with -immeasurable heart-stirring laughter. - -He said, half inarticulate: "What, Clare! You know that I love you?" - -"Of course I do." - -(Great God, what _was_ this thrill that was coming over him, this -tremendous, invincible longing, this molten restlessness, this yearning -for zest in life, for action, starry enthusiasm, resistless plunging -movement!) - -"And you don't mind?" - -"I _do_ mind. That's why I didn't want you to tell me. - -"But what difference has telling you made, if you knew already?" - -"No difference to me. But it will to you. You'll love me more now that -you know I know." - -"Shall I?" His query was like a child's. - -"Yes." - -"How do you know?" - -"I _know_. That's all." - -They were standing there together in the dark lobby. His heart was -wildly beating, and hers--he wondered if it were as calm as her voice. -And then all suddenly he felt her arms upon him, and she, -Clare--Clare!--the reticent, always controlled Clare!--was crying, -actually crying in his arms that stupidly, clumsily held her. And -Clare's voice, unlike anything that it had ever been in his hearing -before, was talking--talking and crying at once--accomplishing the most -curious and un-Clare-like feats. - -"Oh, my dear, _dear_ man--_why_ did you tell me? Why did you make -everything so hard for me and yourself?--Oh, God--let me be weak for -just one little minute--only one little minute!--I love you, Kenneth -Speed, just as you love me--we fit, don't we, as if the world had been -made for us as well as we for ourselves! Oh, what a man _I_ could have -made of you, and what a woman _you_ could have made of me! Dearest, I'm -so sorry.... When you've gone I shall curse myself for all this.... Oh, -my dear, my dear...." She sobbed passionately against his breast, and -then, suddenly escaping from his arms, began to speak in a voice more -like her usual one. "You must go now. There's nothing we can do. Please, -_please_ go now. No, no--don't kiss me.... Just go.... And let's forgive -each other for this scene.... Go, please go.... Good-night.... No, I -won't listen to you.... I want you to go.... Good night.... You haven't -said a word, I know, and I don't want you to. There's nothing to say at -all. Good night.... Good night...." - -He found himself outside in High Street as in some strange -incomprehensible dream.... - - - - -CHAPTER FIVE - - -I - - -All the way back to Millstead joy was raging in his heart, trampling -down all his woes and defying him to be miserable. Nothing in the -world--not his unhappiness with Helen, or the hatred that Millstead had -for him, or the perfidy of his own soul--could drive out that crowning, -overmastering triumph--the knowledge that Clare loved him. For the -moment he saw no difficulties, no dangers, no future that he could not -easily bear. Even if he were never to see Clare again, he felt that the -knowledge that she loved him would be an adequate solace to his mind for -ever. He was happy--deliriously, eternally happy. Helen's silences, the -school's ragging, the Head's sinister coldness, were bereft of all their -powers to hurt him; he had a secret armour, proof against all assault. -It seemed to him that he could understand how the early Christians, -fortified by some such inward armour, had walked calm-eyed and happy -into the arena of lions. - -He did not go straight back to the school, but took a detour along the -Deepersdale road; he wanted to think, and hug his happiness, and -eventually calm it before seeing Helen. Then he wondered what sort of an -explanation he should give her of his absence; for, of course, she would -have received by this time full accounts of the ragging. In the end he -decided that he had better pretend to have been knocked a little silly -by the blow on his head and to have taken a walk into the country -without any proper consciousness of what he was doing. - -He returned to Lavery's about eleven o'clock, admitting himself by his -own private key. In the corridor leading to his own rooms, Helen -suddenly ran into his arms imploring him to tell her if he was hurt, -where he had been, what had happened, and so on. - -He said, speaking as though he had hardly recovered full possession of -his senses: "I--I don't know.... Something hit me.... I think I've been -walking about for a long time.... I'm all right now, though." - -Her hands were feeling the bandages round his head. - -"Who bandaged you?" - -"I--I don't--I don't know." (After all, 'I don't know' was always a safe -answer.) - -She led him into the red-tinted drawing-room. As he entered it he -suddenly felt the onrush of depression, as if, once within these four -walls, half the strength of his armour would be gone. - -"We must have Howard to see you to-morrow morning," she said, her voice -trembling. "It was absolutely disgraceful! I could hear them from -here--I wondered whatever was happening." And she added, with just the -suspicion of tartness: "I'd no idea you'd ever let them rag you like -that." - -"_Let_ them rag me?" he exclaimed. Then, remembering his part, he -stammered: "I--I don't know what--what happened. Something--somebody -perhaps--hit me, I think--that was all. It wasn't--it wasn't the -ragging. I could have--managed that." - -Suddenly she said: "Whose mackintosh is that you're wearing?" - -The tone of her voice was sharp, acrid, almost venomous. - -He started, felt himself blushing, but hoped that in the reddish glow it -would not be observed. "I--I don't know," he stammered, still playing -for safety. - -"You don't know?--Then we'll find out if we can. Perhaps there's a name -inside it." - -She helped him off with it, and he, hoping devoutly that there might not -be a name inside it, watched her fascinatedly. He saw her examine the -inside of the collar and then throw the coat on the floor. - -"So you've been there again," was all that she said. Once again he -replied, maddeningly: "I--I don't know." - -She almost screamed at him: "Don't keep telling me you don't know! -You're not ill--there's nothing the matter with you at all--you're just -pretending! You couldn't keep order in the Big Hall, so you ran away -like a great coward and went to _that_ woman! Did you or didn't you? -Answer me!" - -Never before, he reflected, had she quarrelled so shrilly and -rancorously; hitherto she had been restrained and rather pathetic, but -now she was shouting at him like a fishwife. It was a common domestic -bicker; the sort of thing that gets a good laugh on the music-hall -stage. No dignity in it--just sordid heaped-up abuse. "Great -coward"--"_That_ woman"--! - -He dropped his lost-memory pose, careless, now, whether she found out or -not. - -"I _did_ go to Clare," he said, curtly. "And that's Clare's raincoat. -Also Clare bandaged me--rather well, you must admit. Also, I've drunk -Clare's coffee and warmed myself at Clare's fire. Is there any other -confession you'd like to wring out of me?" - -"Is there indeed? You know that best yourself." - -"Perhaps you think I've been flirting with Clare?" - -(As he said it he thought: Good God, why am I saying such things? It's -only making the position worse for us both.) - -"I've no doubt she would if you'd given her half a chance." - -The bitterness of her increased his own. - -"Or is it that _I_ would if she'd given me half a chance? Are you quite -_sure_ which?" - -"I'm sure of nothing where either of you are concerned. As for Clare, -she's been a traitor. Right from the time of first meeting you she's -played a double game, deceiving me and yourself as well. She's ruined -our lives together, she's spoilt our happiness and she won't be -satisfied till she's wrecked us both completely. I detest her--I loathe -her--I loathe her more than I've ever loathed anybody in the world. -Thank God I know her _now_--at least _I_ shall never trust her any more. -And if _you_ do, perhaps some day you'll pay as I've paid. Do you think -she's playing straight with you any more than she has with me? Do you -think _you_ can trust her? Are you taken in?" - -The note of savage scorn in her voice made him reply coldly: "You've no -cause to talk about taking people in. If ever I've been taken in, as you -call it, it was by you, not by Clare!" - -He saw her go suddenly white. He was half-sorry he had dealt her the -blow, but as she went on to speak, her words, fiercer than ever now, -stung him into gladness. - -"All right! Trust her and pay for it! I could tell you things if I -wished--but I'm not such a traitor to her as she's been to me. I could -tell you things that would make you gasp, you wretched little fool!" - -"They wouldn't make me gasp; they'd make me call you a damned liar. -Helen, I can understand you hating Clare; I can understand, in a sense, -the charge of traitor that you bring against her; but when you hint all -sorts of awful secrets about her I just think what a petty, spiteful -heart you must have! You ruin your own case by actions like that. They -sicken me." - -"Very well, let them sicken you. You'll not be more sickened than I am. -But perhaps you think I can't do more than hint. I can and I will, since -you drive me to it. Next time you pay your evening visits to Clare ask -her what she thinks of Pritchard!" - -"Pritchard! Pritchard!--What's he got to do with it?" - -"Ask Clare." - -"Why should I ask her?" - -"Because, maybe, on the spur of the moment she wouldn't be able to think -of any satisfactory lie to tell you." - -He felt anger rising up within him. He detested Pritchard, and the -mention of his name in connection with Clare infuriated him. Moreover, -his mind, always quick to entertain suspicion, pictured all manner of -disturbing fancies, even though his reason rejected them absolutely. He -trusted Clare; he would believe no evil of her. And yet, the mere -thought of it was a disturbing one. - -"I wouldn't insult her by letting her think I listened to such gossip," -he said, rather weakly. - -There followed a longish pause; he thinking of what she had said and -trying to rid himself of the discomfort of associating Pritchard with -Clare, and she watching him, mockingly, as if conscious that her words -had taken root in his mind. - -Then she went on: "So now you can suspect somebody else instead of me. -And while we're on the subject of Pritchard let me tell you something -else." - -"_Tell me_!" The mere thought that there was anything else to tell in -which Pritchard was concerned was sufficient to give his voice a note of -peremptory harshness. - -"I'm going to leave you." - -"So you've said before." - -"This time I mean it." - -"Well?" - -"And you can divorce me." - -He stamped his foot with irritation. "Don't be ridiculous, Helen. A -divorce is absolutely out of the question." - -"Why? Do you think we can go on like this any longer?" - -"That's not the point. The point is that nothing in the circumstances -provides any grounds for a divorce." - -"So that we've got to go on like this then, eh?" - -"Not like this, I hope. I _still_ hope--that some day--" - -She interrupted him angrily. "You _still_ hope! How many more secret -visits to Clare do you think you'll make,--how many more damnable lies -do you think you'll need to tell me--before you leave off still hoping? -You hateful little hypocrite! Why don't you be frank with me and -yourself and acknowledge that you love Clare? Why don't you run off with -her like a man?" - -He said: "So you think that's what a man would do, eh?" - -"Yes." - -"One sort of a man, perhaps. Only I'm not that sort." - -"I wish you were." - -"Possibly. I also wish that you were another sort of woman, but it's -rather pointless wishing, isn't it?" - -"Everything is rather pointless that has to do with you and me." - -Suddenly he said: "Look here, Helen. Let's stop this talk. Just listen a -minute while I try to tell you how I'm situated. You and I are -married--" - -"Really?" - -"Oh, for God's sake, don't be stupid about it! We're married, and we've -got to put up with it for better, for worse. I visit Clare in an -entirely friendly way, though you mayn't believe it, and your suspicions -of me are altogether unfounded. All the same, I'm prepared to give up -her friendship, if that helps you at all. I'm prepared to leave -Millstead with you, get a job somewhere else, and start life afresh. We -have been happy together, and I daresay in time we shall manage to be -happy again. We'd emigrate, if you liked. And the baby--_our_ baby--our -baby that is to be--" - -She suddenly rushed up to him with her arms raised and struck him with -both fists on his mouth. "Oh, for Christ's sake, stop that sort of talk! -I could kill you when you try to lull me into happiness with those -sticky, little sentimental words! _Our_ baby! Good God, am I to be made -to submit to you because of that? And all the time you talk of it you're -thinking of another woman! You're not livable with! Something's happened -to you that's made you cruel and hateful--you're not the man that I -married or that I ever would have married. I loathe and detest -you--you're rotten--rotten to the very root!" - -He said, idly: "Do you think so?" - -She replied, more restrainedly: "I've never met anybody who's altered so -much as you have in the last six months. You've sunk lower and lower--in -every way, until now--everybody hates you. You're simply a ruin." - -Still quietly he said: "Yes, that's true." And then watching to see the -effect that his words had upon her, he added: "Clare said so." - -"What!" she screamed, frenzied again. "Yes, _she_ knows! _She_ knows how -she's ruined you! She knows better than anybody! And she taunted you -with it! How I loathe her!" - -"And me too, eh?" - -She made no answer. - -Then, more quietly than ever, he said: "Yes, Clare knows what a failure -I've been and how low I've sunk. But she doesn't think it's due to her, -and neither do I." - -He would not say more than that. He wondered if she would perceive the -subtle innuendo which he half-meant and half did not mean; which he -would not absolutely deny, and yet would not positively affirm; which he -was prepared to hint, but only vaguely, because he was not perfectly -sure himself. - -Whether or not she did perceive it he was not able to discover. She was -silent for some while and then said: "Well, I repeat what I said--I'm -going to leave you so that you can get a divorce." - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -"You can leave me if you wish, but I shall not get a divorce." - -"Why not?" - -"Because for one thing I shan't be able to." - -"And why do you think you won't?" - -"Because," he replied, coldly, "the law will not give me my freedom -merely because we have lived a cat-and-dog life together. The law -requires that you should not only leave me, but that you should run away -with another man and commit misconduct with him." - -She nodded. "Yes, and that is what I propose to do." - -"_What_!" - -A curious silence ensued. He was utterly astounded, horrified, by her -announcement; she was smiling at him, mocking his astonishment. He -shouted at her, fiercely: "What's that!" - -She said: "I intend to do what you said." - -"What's that! You _what_?" - -"I intend to do what you said. I shall run away with another man and -commit misconduct with him!" - -"God!" he exclaimed, clenching his teeth, and stamping the floor. "It's -absurd. You can't. You wouldn't dare. Oh, it's impossible. Besides--good -God, think of the scandals! Surely I haven't driven you to _that_! Who -would you run away with?" His anger began to conquer his astonishment. -"You little fool, Helen, you can't do it! I forbid you! Oh, Lord, what a -mess we're in! Tell me, who's the man you're thinking of! I demand to -know. Who is he? Give me his name!" - -And she said, cuttingly: "Pritchard." - -On top of his boiling fury she added: "We've talked it over and he's -quite agreed to--to oblige me in the matter, so you see I really do mean -things this time, darling Kenneth!" - -And she laughed at him. - - - - -II - - -Out of Lavery's he plunged and into the cold, frosty night of Milner's. -He had not stayed to hear the last echoes of her laughter dying away; he -was mad with fury; he was going to kill Pritchard. He ran up the steps -of Milner's and gave the bell a ferocious tug. At last the porter came, -half undressed, and by no means too affable to such a late visitor. "I -want to see Mr. Pritchard on very important business," said Speed. "Will -it take long, sir?" asked the porter, and Speed answered: "I can't say -how long it will take."--"Then," said the porter, "perhaps you wouldn't -mind letting yourself out when you've finished. I'll give you this key -till to-morrow morning--I've got a duplicate of my own." Speed took the -key, hardly comprehending the instructions, and rushed along the -corridor to the flight of steps along the wall of which was printed the -name: "Mr. H. Pritchard." - -Arrived on Pritchard's landing he groped his way to the sitting-room -door and entered stealthily. All was perfectly still, except for one or -two detached snores proceeding from the adjoining dormitory. In the -starshine that came through the window he could see, just faintly, the -outline of Pritchard's desk, and Pritchard's armchair, and Pritchard's -bookshelves, and Pritchard's cap and gown hung upon the hook on the door -of Pritchard's bedroom. _His_ bedroom! He crept towards it, turned the -handle softly, and entered. At first he thought the bed was empty, but -as he listened he could hear breathing--steady, though faint. He began -to be ever so slightly frightened. Being in the room alone with -Pritchard asleep was somehow an unnerving experience; like being alone -in a room with a dead body. For, perhaps, Pritchard would be a dead body -before the dawn rose. And again he felt frightened because somebody -might hear him and come up and think he was in there to steal -something--Pritchard's silver wrist-watch or his rolled gold sleeve -links, for instance. Somehow Speed was unwilling to be apprehended for -theft when his real object was only murder. - -He struck a match to see if it really was Pritchard in bed; it would be -a joke if he murdered somebody else by mistake, wouldn't it? ... - -Yes, it was Pritchard. - -Then Speed, looking down at him, realised that he did not hate him so -much for his disgraceful overtures to Helen as for the suspicion of some -sinister connection with Clare. - -Suddenly Pritchard opened his eyes. - -"Good God, Speed!" he cried, blinking and sitting up in bed. "Whatever's -the matter! What's--what's happened? Anything wrong?" - -And Speed, startled out of his wits by the sudden awakening, fell -forward across Pritchard's bed and fainted. - -So that he did not murder Pritchard after all.... - - - - -III - - -Vague years seemed to pass by, and then out of the abyss came the voice -of the Head booming: "Um, yes, Mr. Speed ... I think, in the -circumstances, you had better--um, yes, take a holiday at the -seaside.... You are very clearly in a highly dangerous--um--nervous -state ... and I will gladly release you from the rest of your term's -duties.... No doubt a rest will effect a great and rapid improvement.... -My wife recommends Seacliffe--a pleasant little watering-place--um, yes, -extremely so.... As for the incidents during preparation last evening, I -think we need not--um--discuss them at present.... Oh yes, most -certainly--as soon as convenient--in fact, an early train to-morrow -morning would not incommode us.... I--um, yes--I hope the rest will -benefit you ... oh yes, I hope so extremely...." - -And he added: "Helen is--um--a good nurse." - -Then something else of no particular importance, and then: "I shall put -Mr.--um--Pritchard in charge of--um--Lavery's while you are absent, so -you need not--um--worry about your House...." - -Speed said, conquering himself enough to smile: "Oh, no, I shan't worry. -I shan't worry about anything." - -"Um--no, I hope not. I--I hope not.... My wife and I--um--we both hope -that you will not--um--worry...." - -Then Speed noticed, with childish curiosity, that the Head was attired -in a sky-blue dressing-gown and pink-striped pyjamas.... - -Where was he, by the way? He looked round and saw a tiny gas-jet burning -on a wall bracket; near him was a bed ... Pritchard's bed, of course. -But why was the Head in Pritchard's bedroom, and why was Clanwell there -as well? - -Clanwell said sepulchrally: "Take things easy, old man. I thought -something like this would happen. You've been overdoing it." - -"Overdoing what?" said Speed. - -"Everything," replied Clanwell. - -The clock on the dressing-table showed exactly midnight. - -"Good-bye," said Speed. - -Clanwell said: "I'm coming over with you to Lavery's." - -The Head departed, booming his farewell. "Good night.... My--um--my best -wishes, Speed ... um, yes--most certainly.... Good night." - -Then Pritchard said: "Perhaps I can sleep again now. Enough to give me a -breakdown, I should think. Good-night, Speed. And good luck. I wish -they'd give _me_ a holiday at Seacliffe.... Good night, Clanwell." - -As they trod over the soft turf of the quadrangle they heard old -Millstead bells calling the hour of midnight. - -Speed said: "Clanwell, do you remember I once told you I could write a -novel about Millstead?" - -"Yes, I remember it." - -"Well, I might have done it then. But I couldn't now. When I first came -here Millstead was so big and enveloping--it nearly swallowed me up. But -now--it's all gone. I might be living in a slum tenement for all it -means to me. Where's it all gone to?" - -"You're ill, Speed. It'll come back when you're better." - -"Yes, but when shall I be better?" - -"When you've been away and had a rest." - -"Are you sure?" - -"Of course I'm sure. You don't suppose you're dying, do you?" - -"No. But there are times when I could suppose I'm dead." - -"Nonsense, man. You're too morbid. Why don't you go for a sea voyage? -Pull yourself together, man, and don't brood." - -Clanwell added: "I'm damned sorry for you--what can I do? Would you like -me to come in Lavery's with you for a while? You're not nervous of being -alone, are you?" - -"Oh no. And besides, I shan't be alone. My wife's there." - -"Of course, of course. Stupid of me. I was for the moment -forgetting--forgetting--" - -"That I was married, eh?" - -"No, no, not exactly--I had just forgotten--well, you know how even the -most obvious things sometimes slip the memory.... Well, here you are. -Have you the key? And you'll be all right, eh? Sure? Well, now, take a -long rest and get better, won't you? Good night--Good night--sure you're -all right? Good night!" - -Clanwell raced back across the turf to his own House and Speed admitted -himself to Lavery's and sauntered slowly down the corridor to his room. - -Helen was sitting in front of the fire, perfectly still and quiet. - -He said: "Helen!" - -"Well!" She spoke without the slightest movement of her head or body. - -"We've got to go away from Millstead." - -He wondered how she would take it. It never occurred to him that she was -prepared. She answered: "Yes. Mother's been over here to tell me all -about it. We're going to Seacliffe in the morning. Catching the 9.5. -What were you doing in Pritchard's bedroom?" - -"Didn't they tell you?" he enquired sarcastically. - -"How could they? They didn't know. They found you fainting across the -bed, and Pritchard said he woke up and found you staring at him." - -"And you can't guess why I went there?" - -"I suppose you wanted to ask him if it were true that he and I were -going away together." - -"No, not quite. I wanted to murder him so that it could never be true." - -"What!" - -"Yes. What I said." - -She made no answer, and after a long pause he said: "You're not in love -with Pritchard, are you?" - -She replied sorrowfully: "Not a little bit. In fact, I rather dislike -him. You're the only person I love." - -"When you're not hating me, eh?" - -"Yes, that's right. When I'm not hating you." - -Then after a second long pause he suddenly decided to make one last -effort for the tranquillising of the future. - -"Helen," he began pleadingly, "Can't you stop hating me? Is it too late -to begin everything afresh? Can't we----" - -Then he stopped. All the eloquence went out of him suddenly, like the -air out of a suddenly pricked balloon. His brain refused to frame the -sentences of promise and supplication that he had intended. His brain -was tired--utterly tired. He felt he did not care whether Helen stayed -with him or not, whether she ran away with Pritchard or not, whether his -own relationship with her improved, worsened, or ceased altogether, -whether anything in the world happened or did not happen. All he wanted -was peace--peace from the eternal torment of his mind. - -She suddenly put her arms round him and kissed him passionately. "We -_will_ begin again, Kenneth," she said eagerly. "We _will_ be happy -again, won't we? Oh yes, I know _we_ will. When we get to Seacliffe -we'll have a second honeymoon together, what do you think, darling?" - -"Rather," he replied, with simulated enthusiasm. In reality he felt -sick--physically sick. Something in the word "honeymoon" set his nerves -on edge. Poor little darling Helen--why on earth had he ever married -such a creature? They would never be happy together, he was quite -certain of that. And yet ... well, anyway, they had to make the best of -it. He smiled at her and returned her kisses, and then suggested packing -the trunk in readiness for the morning. - - - - -CHAPTER SIX - - -I - - -In the morning there arrived a letter from Clare. He guessed it from the -postmark, and was glad that she had the tact to type the address on the -envelope. When he tore it open he saw that the letter was also -typewritten, and signed merely "C. H.", so that he was able to read it -at the breakfast-table without any fears of Helen guessing. It was a -curious sensation, that of reading a letter from Clare with Helen so -near to him, and so unsuspecting. - -It ran:-- - - -"DEAR KENNETH SPEED--As I told you last night I feel thoroughly -disgusted with myself--I knew I should. I'm very sorry I acted as I did, -though of course everything I said was true. If you take my advice -you'll take Helen right away and never come near Millstead any more. -Begin life with her afresh, and don't expect it to be too easy. As for -me--you'd better forget if you can. We mustn't ever see each other -again, and I think we had better not write, either. I really mean that -and I hope you won't send me any awfully pathetic reply as it will only -make things more awkward than they are. There was a time when you -thought I was hard-hearted; you must try and think so again, because I -really don't want to have anything more to do with you. It sounds -brutal, but it isn't, really. You have still time to make your life a -success, and the only way to do it in the present circumstances is to -keep away from my evil influence. So good-bye and good luck. -Yours--C.H."--"P.S. If you ever do return to Millstead you won't find me -there." - - -He was so furious that he tore the letter up and flung it into the fire. - -"What is it?" enquired Helen. - -He forced himself to reply: "Oh, only a tradesman's letter." - -She answered, with vague sympathy: "Everybody's being perfectly horrid, -aren't they?" - -"Oh, I don't care," he replied, shrugging his shoulders and eating -vigorously. "I don't care a damn for the lot of them." - -She looked at him in thoughtful silence. - -Towards the end of the meal he had begun to wonder if it had been -Clare's object to put him in just that mood of fierce aggressiveness and -truculence. He wished he had not thrown the letter into the fire. He -would like to have re-read it, and to have studied the phrasing with a -view to more accurate interpretation. - -That was about seven-thirty in the morning. The bells were just -beginning to ring in the dormitories and the floors above to creak with -the beginnings of movement. It was a dull morning in early March, cold, -but not freezing; the sky was full of mist and clouds, and very likely -it would rain later. As he looked out of the window, for what might be -the last time in his life, he realised that he was leaving Millstead -without a pang. It astonished him a little. There was nothing in the -place that he still cared for. All his dreams were in ruins, all his -hopes shattered, all his enthusiasms burned away; he could look out upon -Millstead, that had once contained them all, without love and without -malice. It was nothing to him now; a mere box of bricks teeming with -strangers. Even the terror of it had vanished; it stirred him to no -emotion at all. He could leave it as casually as he could a railway -station at which he had stopped _en route_. - -And when he tried, just by way of experiment, to resuscitate for a -moment some of the feelings he had once had, he was conscious only of -immense mental strain, for something inside him that was sterile and -that ached intolerably. He remembered how, on the moonlight nights of -his first term, his eyes would fill with tears as he saw the great -window-lit blocks of Milner's and Lavery's rising into the pale night. -He remembered it without passion and without understanding. He was so -different now from what he had been then. He was older now; he was -tired; his emotions had been wrung dry; some of him was a little -withered. - -An hour later he left Millstead quite undramatically by the 9.5. The -taxi came to the door of Lavery's at ten minutes to nine, while the -school was in morning chapel; as he rode away and out of the main gates -he could hear, faintly above the purr of the motor, the drone of two -hundred voices making the responses in the psalms. It did not bring to -his heart a single pang or to his eye a single tear. Helen sat beside -him and she, too, was unmoved; but she had never cared for Millstead. -She was telling him about Seacliffe. - -As the taxi bounded into the station yard she said: "Oh, Kenneth, did -you leave anything for Burton?" - -"No," he answered, curtly. - -"You ought to have done," she said. - -That ended their conversation till they were in the train. - -As he looked out of the window at the dull, bleak fen country he -wondered how he could ever have thought it beautiful. Mile after mile of -bare, grey-green fields, ditches of tangled reeds, forlorn villages, -trees that stood solitary in the midst of great plains. He saw every now -and then the long, flat road along which he had cycled many times to -Pangbourne. And in a little while Pangbourne itself came into view, with -its huge dominating cathedral round which he had been wont formerly to -conduct little enthusiastic parties of Millsteadians; Pangbourne had -seemed to him so pretty and sunlit in those days, but now all was dull -and dreary, and the mist was creeping up in swathes from the fenlands. -Pangbourne station... - -Again he wished that he had not burnt Clare's letter. - -At noon he was at Seacliffe, booking accommodation at the Beach Hotel. - - - - -II - - -"Heaven knows what we are going to do with ourselves here," he remarked -to Helen during lunch. - -"You've got to rest," replied Helen. - -He went on to a melancholy mastication of bread. "So far as I can see, -we're the only visitors in the entire hotel." - -"Well, Kenneth, March is hardly the season, is it?" - -"Then why did we come here? I'd much rather have gone to town, where -there's always something happening. But a seaside-place in winter!--is -there anything in the world more depressing?" - -"There's nobody in the world more depressing than you are yourself," she -answered tartly. "It isn't my fault we've come here in March. It isn't -my fault we've come here at all. And what good would London have done -for you? It's rest you want, and you'll get it here." - -"Heavens, yes--I'll get it all right." - -After a silence he smiled and said: "I'm sorry, Helen, for being such a -wet blanket. And you're quite right, it isn't your fault--not any of it. -What can we do this afternoon?" - -"We can have a walk along the cliffs," she answered. - -He nodded and took up a week-old copy of the _Seacliffe Gazette_. -"That's what we'll do," he said, beginning to read. - -So that afternoon they had a walk along the cliffs. - -In fact there was really nothing at all to do in Seacliffe during the -winter season except to take a walk along the cliffs. Everything wore an -air of depression--the dingy rain-sodden refreshment kiosks, the -shuttered bandstand, the rusting tram rails on the promenade, along -which no trams had run since the preceding October, the melancholy pier -pavilion, forlornly decorated with the tattered advertisements of last -season's festivities. Nothing remained of the town's social amenities -but the cindered walk along the cliff edges, and this, except for -patches of mud and an absence of strollers, was much the same as usual. -Speed and Helen walked vigorously, as people do on the first day of -their holidays--grimly determined to extract every atom of nourishment -out of the much-advertised air. They climbed the slope of the Beach -hill, past the gaunt five-storied basemented boarding-houses, past the -yachting club-house, past the marine gardens, past the rows of glass -shelters, and then on to the winding cinder-path that rose steeply to -the edge of the cliffs. Meanwhile the mist turned to rain and the sea -and the sky merged together into one vast grey blur without a horizon. - -Then they went back to the Beach Hotel for tea. - -Then they read the magazines until dinner-time, and after dinner, more -magazines until bedtime. - -The next day came the same routine again; walk along the cliffs in the -morning; walk along the cliffs in the afternoon; tea; magazines; dinner; -magazines; bed. Speed discovered in the hotel a bookcase entirely filled -with cheap novels that had been left behind by previous visitors. He -read some of them until their small print gave him a headache. Helen -revelled in them. In the mornings, by way of a variant from the cliff -walk, they took to sitting on the windless side of the municipal -shelters, absorbed in the novels. It was melancholy, and yet Speed felt -with some satisfaction that he was undoubtedly resting, and that, on the -whole, he was enduring it better than he had expected. - - - - -III - - -Then slowly there grew in him again the thought of Clare. It was as if, -as soon as he gained strength at all, that strength should bring with it -turmoil and desire, so that the only peace that he could ever hope for -was the joyless peace of exhaustion. The sharp sea-salt winds that -brought him health and vigour brought him also passion, passion that -racked and tortured him into weakness again. - -He wished a thousand times that he had not burned Clare's letter. He -felt sure that somewhere in it there must have been a touch of verbal -ambiguity or subtlety that would have given him some message of hope; he -could not believe that she had sent him merely a letter of dismissal. In -one sense, he was glad that he had burned the letter, for the -impossibility of recovering it made it easier for him to suppose -whatever he wished about it. And whatever he wished was really only one -wish in the world, a wish of one word: Clare. He wanted her, her -company, her voice, her movements around him, the sight of her, her -quaint perplexing soul that so fitted in with his own, her baffling -mysterious understandings of him that nobody else had ever had at all. -He wanted her as a sick man longs for health; as if he had a divine -right to her, and as if the withholding of her from him gave him a -surging grudge against the world. - -One dreary interval between tea at the hotel and dinner he wrote to her. -He wrote in a mood in which he cared not if his writing angered her or -not; her silence, if she did not reply, would be his answer. And if she -did not reply, he vowed solemnly to himself that he would never write to -her again, that he would put her out of his life and spend his energies -in forgetting her. - -He wrote:-- - - -"DEAR CLARE--I destroyed your letter, and I can't quite remember whether -it forbade me to reply or not. Anyhow, that's only my excuse for it. I'm -having a dreadfully dull time at Seacliffe--we're the only visitors at -the hotel and, so far as I can see, the only visitors in Seacliffe at -all. I'm not exactly enjoying it, but I daresay it's doing me good. -Thanks ever so much for your advice--I mean to profit by it--most of it, -at any rate. But mayn't I write to you--even if you don't write to me? I -do want to, especially now. May I!--Yours, KENNETH SPEED." - - -No answer to that. For nearly a week he scanned the rack in the -entrance-hall, hoping to see his own name typewritten on an envelope, -for he guessed that even if she did reply she would take that -precaution. But in vain his hurried and anxious returns from the -cliff-walks; no letter was there. And at last, tortured to despair, he -wrote again. - - -"DEAR CLARE--You haven't answered my letter. I did think you would, and -now I'm a prey to all sorts of awful and, no doubt, quite ridiculous -fears. And I'm going to ask you again, half-believing that you didn't -receive my last letter--may I write to you? May I write to you whenever -I want? I can't have your company, I know--surely you haven't the heart -to deny me the friendship I can get by writing to you? You needn't -answer: I promise I will never ask for an answer. I don't care if the -letters I write offend you or not; there is only one case in which I -should like you to be good enough to reply to me and tell me not to -write again. And that is if you were beginning to forget me--if letters -from me were beginning to be a bore to you. _Please_, therefore, let me -write.--Yours, KENNETH SPEED." - - -To that there came a reply by return of post: - - -"MY DEAR KENNETH SPEED,--I think correspondence between us is both -unwise and unnecessary, but I don't see how I can prevent you from -writing if you wish to. And you need not fear that I shall forget -you.--CLARE." - - -He replied, immediately, and with his soul tingling with the renewal of -happiness: - - -"DEAR CLARE,--Thank God you can't stop me from writing, and thank God -you know you can't. I don't feel unhappy now that I can write to you, -now that I know you will read what I write. I feel so unreticent where -you are concerned--I want you to _understand_, and I don't really care, -when you have understood, whether you condemn or not. This is going -(perhaps) to be a longish letter; I'm alone in the lounge of this -entirely God-forsaken hotel--Helen is putting on a frock for dinner, and -I've got a quarter-of-an-hour for you. - -"This is what I've found out since I've come to Seacliffe. I've found -out the true position of you and me. You've sunk far deeper into my soul -than I have ever guessed, and I don't honestly know how on earth I'm to -get rid of you! For the last ten days I've been fighting hard to drive -you away, but I'm afraid I've been defeated. You're there still, -securely entrenched as ever, and you simply won't budge. The only times -I don't think of you are the times when I'm too utterly tired out to -think of anything or anybody. Worse still, the stronger I get the more I -want you. Why can't I stop it? You yourself said during our memorable -interview after the 'rag' that it wasn't a bit of good trying to stop -loving somebody. So _you_ know, as well as me--am I to conclude that, -you Hound of Heaven? - -"But you can't get rid of me, I hope, any more than I can of you. You -may go to the uttermost ends of the earth, but it won't matter. I shall -still have you, I shall always bore you--in fact, I've got you now, -haven't I? Don't we belong to each other in spite of ourselves? - -"I tell you, I've tried to drive you out of my mind. And I really think -I might succeed better if I didn't try. Therefore, I shan't try any -more. How can you deliberately try to forget anybody? The mere -deliberation of the effort rivets them more and more eternally on your -memory! - -"Helen and I are getting on moderately well. We don't quarrel. We -exchange remarks about the weather, and we discuss trashy novels which -we both have read, and we take long and uninteresting walks along the -cliffs and admire the same views, over and over again. Helen thinks the -rest must be doing me a lot of good. Oh my dear, dear Clare, am I wicked -because I sit down here and write to you these pleading, treacherous -letters, while my wife dresses herself upstairs without a thought that I -am so engaged? Am I really full of sin? I know if I put my case before -ninety-nine out of a hundred men and women what answer I should receive. -But are you the hundredth? I don't care if you are or not; if this is -wickedness, I clasp it as dearly as if it were not. I just can't help -it. I lie awake at nights trying to think nice, husbandly things about -Helen, and just when I think I've got really interested in her I find -it's you I've really been thinking about and not Helen at all. - -"There must be some wonderful and curious bond between us, some sort of -invisible elastic. It wouldn't ever break, no matter how far apart we -went, but when it's stretched it hurts, hurts us both, I hope, equally. -Is it really courage to go on hurting ourselves like this? What is the -good of it? Supposing--I only say supposing--supposing we let go, let -the elastic slacken, followed our heart's desire, what then? Who would -suffer? Helen, I suppose. Poor Helen!--I mustn't let her suffer like -that, must I? - -"It wasn't real love that I ever had for her; it was just mere physical -infatuation. And now that's gone, all that's left is just dreadful -pity--oh, pity that will not let me go! And yet what good is pity--the -sort of pity that I have for her? - -"Ever since I first knew you, you have been creeping into my heart ever -so slowly and steadily, and I, because I never guessed what was -happening, have yielded myself to you utterly. In fact, I am a man -possessed by a devil--a good little devil--yet--" - - -He looked round and saw Helen standing by the side of him. He had not -heard her approach. She might have been there some while, he reflected. -Had she been looking over his shoulder? Did she know to whom was the -letter he was writing? - -He started, and instinctively covered as much of the writing as he could -with the sleeve of his jacket. - -"I didn't know you still wrote to Clare," she said, quietly. - -"Who said I did?" he parried, with instant truculence. - -"You're writing to her now." - -"How do you know?" - -"Never mind how I know. Answer me: you are, aren't you?" - -"I refuse to answer such a question. Surely I haven't to tell you of -every letter I write. If you've been spying over my shoulder it's your -own fault. How would you like me to read all the letters you write?" - -"I wouldn't mind in the least, Kenneth, if I thought you didn't trust -me." - -"Well, I do trust you, you see, and even if I didn't I shouldn't attempt -such an unheard--of liberty. And if you can't trust me without censoring -my correspondence, I'm afraid you'll have to go on mistrusting me." - -"I don't want to censor your correspondence. I only want you to answer -me a straight question: is that a letter to Clare that you're writing?" - -"It's a most improper question, and I refuse to answer it." - -"Very well.... I think it's time for dinner; hadn't you better finish -the letter afterwards? Unless of course, it's very important." - -During dinner she said: "I don't feel like staying in from now until -bedtime. You'll want to finish your letter, of course, so I think, if -you don't mind, I'll go to the local kinema." - -"You can't go alone, can you?" - -"There's nobody can very easily stop me, is there? You don't want to -come with me, I suppose?" - -"I'm afraid I don't care for kinemas much? Isn't there a theatre -somewhere?" - -"No. Only a kinema. I looked in the _Seacliffe Gazette_. In the summer -there are Pierrots on the sands, of course." - -"So you want to go alone to the kinema?" - -"Yes." - -"All right. But I'll meet you when it's over. Half-past ten, I suppose?" - -"Probably about then. You don't mind me leaving you for a few hours, do -you?" - -"Oh, not at all. I hope you have a good time. I'm sure I can quite -understand you being bored with Seacliffe. It's the deadest hole I've -ever struck." - -"But it's doing you good, isn't it?" - -"Oh, yes, I daresay it is in _that_ way." - -She added, after a pause: "When you get back to the lounge you'll wonder -where you put your half-written letter." - -"What do you mean?" He suddenly felt in his inside coat-pocket. -"Why--where is it? I thought I put it in my pocket. Who's got it? Have -_you_?" - -"Yes. You thought you put it in your pocket, I know. But you didn't. You -left it on the writing table and I picked it up when you weren't -looking." - -"Then you _have_ got it?" - -"Yes, I have got it." - -He went red with rage. "Helen, I don't want to make a scene in front of -the servants, but I insist on you giving up to me that letter. You've -absolutely no right to it, and I demand that you give it me -immediately." - -"You shall have it after I've read it." - -"Good God, Helen, don't play the fool with me! I want it now, this -minute! Understand, I mean it! I want it now!" - -"And I shan't give it to you." - -He suddenly looked round the room. There was nobody there; the waitress -was away; the two of them were quite alone. He rose out of his chair and -with a second cautious glance round him went over to her and seized her -by the neck with one hand while with the other he felt in her corsage -for the letter. He knew that was where she would have put it. The very -surprise of his movement made it successful. In another moment he had -the letter in his hand. He stood above her, grim and angry, flaunting -the letter high above her head. She made an upward spring for his hand, -and he, startled by her quick retaliation, crumpled the letter into a -heap and flung it into the fire at the side of the room. Then they both -stared at each other in silence. - -"So it's come to that," she said, her face very white. She placed her -hand to her breast and said: "By the way, you've hurt me." - -He replied: "I'm sorry if I hurt you. I didn't intend to. I simply -wanted to get the letter, that's all." - -"All right," she answered. "I'll excuse you for hurting me." - -Then the waitress entered with the sweet and their conversation was -abruptly interrupted. - -After dinner he went back into the lounge and took up an illustrated -paper. Somehow, he did not feel inclined to try to rewrite the letter to -Clare. And in any case, he could not have remembered more than bits of -it; it would have to be a fresh letter if he wrote at all. - -Helen came downstairs to him with hat and coat on ready for outdoors. - -"Good-bye," she said, "I'm going." - -He said: "Hadn't I better take you down to the place? I don't mind a bit -of a walk, you know." - -She answered: "Oh, no, don't bother. It's not far. You get on with your -letter-writing." - -Then she paused almost at the door of the lounge, and said, coming back -to him suddenly: "Kiss me before I go, Kenneth." - -He kissed her. Then she smiled and went out. - -An hour later he started another letter to Clare. - - -"MY DEAR, _dear_ CLARE,--I'm so pleased it has not all come to an end! ... -All those hours we spent together, all the work we have shared, all -our joy and laughter and sympathy together--it could not have counted -for nothing, could it? We dare not have put an end to it; we should fear -being haunted all our lives. We ..." - - -Then the tired feeling came on him, and he no longer wanted to write, -not even to Clare. He put the hardly-begun letter in his -pocket--carefully, this time--and took up the illustrated paper again. -He half wished he had gone with Helen to the kinema.... A quarter to -ten.... It would soon be time for him to stroll out and meet her. - - - - -IV - - -Walking along the promenade to the beach kinema he solemnly reviewed his -life. He saw kaleidoscopically his childhood days at Beachings Over, -then the interludes at Harrow and Cambridge, and then the sudden -tremendous plunge--Millstead! It seemed to him that ever since that -glowering April afternoon when he had first stepped into Ervine's dark -study, events had been shaping themselves relentlessly to his ruin. He -could see himself as a mere automaton, moved upon by the calm accurate -fingers of fate. His meeting with Helen, his love of her and hers for -him, their marriage, their slow infinitely wearisome estrangement--all -seemed as if it had been planned with sinister deliberation. Only one -section of his life had been dominated by his own free will, and that -was the part of it that had to do with Clare. He pondered over the -subtle differentiation, and decided at last that it was invalid, and -that fate had operated at least as much with Clare as with Helen. And -yet, for all that, the distinction remained in his mind. His life with -Helen seemed to press him down, to cramp him in a narrow groove, to -deprive him of all self-determination; it was only when he came to Clare -that he was free again and could do as he liked. Surely it was he -himself, and not fate, that drew him joyously to Clare. - -The mist that had hovered over Seacliffe all day was now magically -lifted, and out of a clear sky there shone a moon with the slightest of -yellow haloes encircling it. The promenade was nearly deserted, and in -all the tall cliff of boarding-houses along the Marine Parade there was -hardly a window with a light in it. The solitary redness of the lamp on -the end of the pier sent a soft shimmer over the intervening water; the -sea, at almost high tide, was quite calm. Hardly a murmur of the waves -reached his ears as he strolled briskly along, but that was because they -were right up against the stone wall of the promenade and had no beach -of pebbles to be noisy with. He leaned over the railings and saw the -water immediately beneath him, silvered in moonlight. Seacliffe was -beautiful now.... Then he looked ahead and saw the garish illuminations -of the solitary picture-palace that Seacliffe possessed, and he wondered -how Helen or anybody could prefer a kinema entertainment to the glory of -the night outside. And yet, he reflected, the glory of the night was a -subjective business; it required a certain mood; whereas the kinema -created its own mood, asking and requiring nothing. Poor Helen! - -Why should pity for her have overwhelmed him suddenly at that moment? He -did not love her, not the least fraction; yet he would have died for her -if such had need to be. If she were in danger he would not stay to -think; he would risk life or limb for her sake without a premonitory -thought. He almost longed for the opportunity to sacrifice himself for -her in some such way. He felt he owed it to her. But there was one -sacrifice that was _too_ hard--he could not live with her in -contentment, giving up Clare. He knew he couldn't. He saw quite clearly -in the future the day when he would leave Helen and go to Clare. Not -fate this time, but the hungering desire of his heart, that would not -let him rest. - -And yet, was not this same desire fate itself, his own fate, leading him -on and further to some inevitable end? Only that he did not fear it. He -opened wide his arms, welcoming it, longing for and therefore -unconscious of its domination. - -He stood in front of the gilded dinginess of the picture-place, -pondering on his destiny, when there came up to him a shabby little man -in a long tattered overcoat, who asked him for a light. Speed, who was -so anxious not to be a snob that he usually gave to strangers the -impression of being one, proffered a box of matches and smiled. But for -the life of him he could not think of anything to say. He felt he ought -to say something, lest the other fellow might think him surly; he racked -his brain for some appropriate remark and eventually said: "Nice night." -The other lit the stump of a cigarette contemplatively and replied: -"Yes. Nice night.... Thanks.... Waiting for somebody?" - -"Yes," replied Speed, rather curtly. He had no desire to continue the -conversation, still less to discuss his own affairs. - -"Rotten hole, Seacliffe, in winter," resumed the stranger, showing no -sign of moving on. - -"Yes," agreed Speed. - -"Nothing to do--nowhere to go--absolutely the deadest place on God's -earth. I live here and I know. Every night I take a stroll about this -time and to-night's bin the first night this year I've ever seen anything -happen at all." - -"Indeed?" - -The stranger ignored the obvious boredness of Speed's voice, and -continued: "Yes. That's the truth. But it happened all right to-night. -Quite exciting, in fact." - -He looked at Speed to see if his interest was in any way aroused. Such -being not yet so he remarked again: "Yes, quite exciting." He paused and -added: - -"Bit gruesome perhaps--to some folks." - -Speed said, forcing himself to be interested: - -"Why, what was it?" - -And the other, triumphant that he had secured an attentive audience at -last, replied: "Body found. Pulled up off the breakwater.... Drowned, of -course." - -Even now Speed was only casually interested. - -"Really? And who was it?" - -"Don't know the name.... A woman's body." - -"Nobody identified her yet?" - -"Not yet. They say she's not a Seacliffe woman.... See _there_!" He -pointed back along the promenade towards a spot where, not half an hour -ago, Speed had leaned over the railings to see the moonlight on the sea. -"Can you see the crowd standing about? That's where they dragged her in. -Only about ten minutes ago as I was passin'. Very high tide, you know, -washes all sorts of things up.... I didn't stay long--bit too gruesome -for me." - -"Yes," agreed Speed. "And for me too.... By the way d'you happen to know -when this picture house shuts up?" - -"About half-past ten, mostly." - -"Thanks." - -"Well--I'll be gettin' along.... Much obliged for the light.... -Good-night...." - -"Good-night," said Speed. - -A few minutes later the crowd began to tumble out of the kinema. He -stood in the darkness against a blank wall, where he could see without -being seen. He wondered whether he had not better take Helen home -through the town instead of along the promenade. It was a longer way, of -course, but it would avoid the unpleasant affair that the stranger had -mentioned to him. He neither wished to see himself nor wished Helen to -see anything of the sort. - -Curious that she was so late? The kinema must be almost empty now; the -stream of people had stopped. He saw the manager going to the box-office -to lock up. "Have they all come out?" he asked, emerging into the rays -of the electric lights. "Yes, everybody," answered the other. He even -glanced at Speed suspiciously, as if he wondered why he should be -waiting for somebody who obviously hadn't been to the kinema at all. - -Well.... Speed stood in a sheltered alcove and lit a cigarette. He had -better get back to the Beach Hotel, anyway. Perhaps Helen hadn't gone to -the picture-show after all. Or, perhaps, she had come out before the end -and they had missed each other. Perhaps anything.... Anything! ... - -Then suddenly the awful thought occurred to him. At first it was -fantastic; he walked along, sampling it in a horrified fashion, yet -refusing to be in the least perturbed by it. Then it gained ground upon -him, made him hasten his steps, throw away his cigarette, and finally -run madly along the echoing promenade to the curious little silent crowd -that had gathered there, about half-way to the pier entrance. He -scampered along the smooth asphalt just like a boisterous youngster, yet -in his eyes was wild brain-maddening fear. - - - - -V - - -Ten minutes later he knew. They pointed to a gap in the railings close -by, made some while before by a lorry that had run out of control along -the Marine Parade. The Urban District Council ought to have repaired the -railings immediately after the accident, and he (somebody in the crowd) -would not be surprised if the coroner censured the Council pretty -severely at the inquest. The gap was a positive death-trap for anybody -walking along at night and not looking carefully ahead. And _he_ -(somebody else in the crowd) suggested the possibility of making the -Seacliffe Urban District Council pay heavy damages.... Of course, it was -an accident.... There was a bad bruise on the head: that was where she -must have struck the stones as she fell.... And in one of the pockets -was a torn kinema ticket; clearly she had been on her way home from the -Beach kinema.... Once again, it was the Council's fault for not promptly -repairing the dangerous gap in the railings. - -They led him back to the Beach Hotel and gave him brandy. He kept -saying: "Now please go--I'm quite all right.... There's really nothing -that anybody can do for me.... Please go now...." - -When at last he was alone in the cheerless hotel bedroom he sat down on -the side of the bed and cried. Not for sorrow or pity or terror, but -merely to relieve some fearful strain of emotion that was in him. Helen -dead! He could hardly force himself to believe it, but when he did he -felt sorry, achingly sorry, because there had been so many bonds between -them, so many bonds that only death could have snapped. He saw her now, -poor little woman, as he had never seen her before; the love in her -still living, and all that had made them unhappy together vanished away. -He loved her, those minutes in the empty, cheerless bedroom, more calmly -than he had ever loved her when she had been near to him. And--strange -miracle!--she had given him peace at last. Pity for her no longer -overwhelmed him with its sickly torture; he was calm, calm with sorrow, -but calm. - - - - -VI - - -Then, slowly, grimly, as to some fixed and inevitable thing, his torture -returned. He tried to persuade himself that the worst was over, that -tragedy had spent its terrible utmost; but even the sad calm of -desperation was nowhere to be found. He paced up and down the bedroom -long and wearisomely; shortly after midnight the solitary gas-jet -faltered and flickered and finally abandoned itself with a forlorn pop. -"_Curse_ the place!" he muttered, acutely nervous in the sudden gloom; -then for some moments he meditated a sarcastic protest to the -hotel-proprietress in the morning. "I am aware," he would begin, tartly, -"that the attractions of Seacliffe in the evenings are not such as would -often tempt the visitor to keep up until the small hours; but don't you -think that is an argument _against_ rather than _for_ turning off the -gas-supply at midnight?" Rather ponderous, though; probably the woman -wouldn't know what he meant. He might write a letter to the _Seacliffe -Gazette_ about it, anyway. "Oh, _damn_ them!" he exclaimed, with sudden -fervour, as he searched for the candle on the dressing-table. -Unfortunately he possessed no matches, and the candlestick, when at last -his groping had discovered it, contained none, either. It was so -infernally dark and silent; everybody in the place was in bed except -himself. He pictured the maids, sleeping cosily in the top attics, or -perhaps chattering together in whispers about clothes or their -love-affairs or Seacliffe gossip or--why, of course!--about _him_. They -would surely be talking about him. Such a tit-bit of gossip! Everyone in -Seacliffe would be full of the tragedy of the young fellow whose wife, -less than a year married, had fallen accidentally into the sea off the -promenade! He, not she, would be the figure of high tragedy in their -minds, and on the morrow they would all stare at him morbidly, -curiously.... Good God in Heaven! Could he endure it? ... Lightly the -moonlight filtered through the Venetian blinds on to the garish linoleum -pattern; and when the blinds were stirred by the breeze the light -skipped along the floor like moving swords; he could not endure that, -anyway. He went to the windows and drew up the blinds, one after the -other. They would hear that, he reflected, if they were awake; they -would know he was not asleep. - -Then he remembered her as he had seen her less than a twelvemonth -before; standing knee-deep in the grasses by the river-bank at -Parminters. Everywhere that he had loved her was so clear now in his -mind, and everywhere else was so unreal and dim. He heard the tinkle of -the Head's piano and saw her puzzling intently over some easy Chopin -mazurka, her golden hair flame-like in the sunlight of the afternoon. He -saw the paths and fields of Millstead, all radiant where she and he had -been, and the moonlight lapping the pavilion steps, where, first of all, -he had touched her lips with his. And then--only with an effort could he -picture this--he saw the grim room downstairs, where she lay all wet and -bedraggled, those cheeks that he had kissed ice-cold and salt with the -sea. The moon, emerging fully from behind a mist, plunged him suddenly -in white light; at that moment it seemed to him that he was living in -some ugly nightmare, and that shortly he would wake from it and find all -the tragedy untrue. Helen was alive and well: he could only have -imagined her dead. And downstairs, in that sitting-room--it had been no -more than a dream, fearful and--thank God--false. Helen was away, -somewhere, perfectly well and happy--_somewhere_. And downstairs, in -that sitting-room ... Anyhow, he would go down and see, to convince -himself. He unlocked the bedroom door and tiptoed out on to the landing. -He saw the moon's rays caught phosphorescently on a fish in a glass -case. Down the two flights of stairs he descended with caution, and -then, at the foot, strove to recollect which was the room. He saw two -doors, with something written on them. One was the bar-parlour, he -thought, where the worthies of Seacliffe congregated nightly. He turned -the handle and saw the glistening brass of the beer-engines. Then the -other door, might be? He tried the handle, but the door was locked. -Somehow this infuriated him. "They lock the doors and turn off the gas!" -he cried, vehemently, uniting his complaints. Then suddenly he caught -sight of another door in the wall opposite, a door on which there was no -writing at all. He had an instant conviction that this must be _the_ -door. He strode to it, menacingly, took hold of its handle in a firm -grasp, and pushed. Locked again! This time he could not endure the fury -that raged within him. "Good God!" he cried, shouting at the top of his -voice, "I'll burst every door in the place in!" He beat on the panels -with his fists, shouting and screaming the whole while.... - -Ten minutes later the hotel-porter and the bar man, clad in trousers and -shirt only, were holding his arms on either side, and the proprietress, -swathed in a pink dressing-gown, was standing a little way off, staring -at him curiously. And he was complaining to her about the turning off of -the gas at midnight. "One really has a right to expect something more -generous from the best hotel in Seacliffe," he was saying, with an -argumentative mildness that surprised himself. "It is not as though this -were a sixpenny doss-house. It is an A.A. listed hotel, and I consider -it absolutely scandalous that ..." - - - - -VII - - -Strangely, when he was back again and alone in his own bedroom, he felt -different. His gas-jet was burning again, evidently as a result of his -protest; the victory gave him a curious, childish pleasure. Nor did his -burdens weigh so heavily on him; indeed, he felt even peaceful enough to -try to sleep. He undressed and got into bed. - -And then, slowly, secretly, dreadfully, he discovered that he was -thinking about Clare! It frightened him--this way she crept into his -thoughts as pain comes after the numbness of a blow. He knew he ought -not to think of her. He ought to put her out of his mind, at any rate, -for the present. Helen dead this little while, and already Clare in his -thoughts! The realisation appalled him, terrified him by affording him a -glimpse into the depths of his own dark soul. And yet--_he could not -help it_. Was he to be blamed for the thoughts that he could not drive -out of his mind? He prayed urgently and passionately for sleep, that he -might rid himself of the lurking, lurking image of her. But even in -sleep he feared he might dream of her. - -Oh, Clare, Clare, would she ever come to him now, now that he was alone -and Helen was dead? God, the awfulness of the question! Yet he could not -put it away from him; he could but deceive himself, might be, into -thinking he was not asking it. He wanted Clare. Not more than ever--only -as much as he had always wanted her. - -He wondered solemnly if the stuff in him were rotten; if he were proven -vile and debased because he wanted her; if he were cancelling his soul -by thinking of her so soon. And yet--God help him; even if all that were -so, _he could not help it_. If he were to be damned eternally for -thinking about Clare, then let him be damned eternally. Actions he might -control, but never the strains and cravings of his own mind. If he were -wrong, therefore, let him be wrong. - -He wondered whether, when he fell asleep, he would dream about Helen or -about Clare. And yet, when at last his very tiredness made him close his -eyes, he dreamed of neither of them, but slept in perfect calm, as a -child that has been forgiven. - - -In the morning they brought his breakfast up to him in bed, and with it -a letter and a telegram. The chambermaid asked him dubiously if he were -feeling better and he replied: "Oh yes, much better, thanks." Only -vaguely could he remember what had taken place during the night. - -When the girl had gone and he had glanced at the handwriting on the -envelope, he had a sudden paralysing shock, for it was Helen's! - -The postmark was: "Seacliffe, 10.10 p.m." - -He tore open the envelope with slow and awful dread, and took out a -single sheet of Beach Hotel notepaper. Scribbled on it in pencil was -just: - - -"DEAR KENNETH" ("Dear" underlined),--Good-bye, darling. I can't bear you -not to be happy. Forget me and don't worry. They will think it has been -an accident, and you mustn't tell them anything else. Leave Millstead -and take Clare away. Be happy with her.--Yours, HELEN."-- - -"P.S.--There's one thing I'm sorry for. On the last night before we left -Millstead I said something about Clare and Pritchard. Darling, it was a -lie--I made it up because I couldn't bear you to love Clare so much. I -don't mind now. Forgive me." - - -A moment later he was opening the telegram and reading: "Shall arrive -Seacliffe Station one fifteen meet me Clare." - -It had been despatched from Millstead at nine-five that morning, -evidently as soon as the post office opened. - -He ate no breakfast. It was a quarter past eleven and the sun was -streaming in through the window--the first spring day of the year. He -re-read the letter. - -Strange that until then the thought that the catastrophe could have been -anything at all but accidental had never even remotely occurred to him! -Now it came as a terrible revelation, hardly to be believed, even with -proof; a revelation of that utmost misery that had driven her to the -sea. He had known that she was not happy, but he had never guessed that -she might be miserable to death. - -And what escape was there now from his own overwhelming guilt? She had -killed herself because he had not made her happy. Or else because she -had not been able to make him happy. Whichever it was, he was fearfully -to blame. She had killed herself to make room for that other woman who -had taken all the joy out of her life. - -And at one-fifteen that other woman would arrive in Seacliffe. - -In the darkest depths of his remorse he vowed that he would not meet -her, see her, or hold any communication with her ever again, so long as -his life lasted. He would hate her eternally, for Helen's sake. He would -dedicate his life to the annihilation of her in his mind. Why was she -coming? Did she know? How _could_ she know? He raved at her mentally, -trying to involve her in some share of his own deep treachery, for even -the companionship of guilt was at least companionship. The two of -them--Clare and himself--had murdered Helen. The two of them--together. -_Together_. There was black magic in the intimacy that that word -implied--magic in the guilty secret that was between them, in the -passionate iniquity that was alluring even in its baseness! - -He dressed hurriedly, and with his mind in a ferment, forgot his -breakfast till it was cold and then found it too unpalatable to eat. As -he descended the stairs and came into the hotel lobby he remarked to the -proprietress: "Oh, by the way, I must apologise for making a row last -night. Fact is, my nerves, you know.... Rather upset...." - -"Quite all right, Mr. Speed. I'm sure we all understand and sympathise -with you. If there's any way we can help you, you know.... Shall you be -in to lunch?" - -"Lunch? Oh yes--er--I mean, no. No, I don't think I shall--not to-day. -You see there are--er--arrangements to make--er--arrangements, you -know ..." - -He smiled, and with carefully simulated nonchalance, commenced to light -a cigarette! When he got outside the hotel he decided that it was -absolutely the wrong thing to have done. He flung the cigarette into the -gutter. What was the matter with him? Something,--something that made -him, out of very fear, do ridiculous and inappropriate things. The same -instinct, no doubt, that always made him talk loudly when he was -nervous. And then he remembered that April morning of the year before, -when he had first of all entered the Headmaster's study at Millstead; -for then, through nervousness, he had spoken loudly, almost -aggressively, to disguise his embarrassment. What a curious creature he -was, and how curious people must think him. - -He strolled round the town, bought a morning paper at the news agent's, -and pretended to be interested in the contents. Over him like a sultry -shadow lay the disagreeable paraphernalia of the immediate future: -doctors, coroner, inquest, lawyers, interviews with Doctor and Mrs. -Ervine, and so on. It had all to be gone through, but for the present he -would try to forget it. The turmoil of his own mind, that battle which -was being waged within his inmost self, that strife which no coroner -would guess, those secrets which no inquest would or could elicit; these -were the things of greater import. In the High Street, leading up from -the Pierhead, he saw half a dozen stalwart navvies swinging -sledge-hammers into the concrete road-bed. He stopped, ostensibly to -wait for a tram, but really to watch them. He envied them, passionately; -envied their strength and animal simplicity; envied above all their lack -of education and ignorance of themselves, their happy blindness along -the path of life. He wished he could forget such things as Art and -Culture and Education, and could become as they, or as he imagined them -to be. Their lives were brimful of _real_ things, things to be held and -touched--hammers and levers and slabs of concrete. With all their crude -joy and all their pain, simple and physical, their souls grew strong and -stark. He envied them with a passion that made him desist at last from -the sight of them, because it hurt. - -The town-hall clock began the hour of noon, and that reminded him of -Clare, and of the overwhelming fact that she was at that moment in the -train hastening to Seacliffe. Was he thinking of her again? He went into -a café and ordered in desperation a pot of China tea and some bread and -butter, as if the mere routine of a meal would rid his mind of her. For -desire was with him still, nor could he stave it off. Nothing that he -could ever discover, however ugly or terrible, could stop the craving of -him for Clare. The things that they had begun together, he and she, had -no ending in this world. And suddenly all sense of free-will left him, -and he felt himself propelled at a mighty rate towards her, wherever she -might be; fate, surely, guiding him to her, but this time, a fate that -was urging him from within, not pressing him from without. And he knew, -secretly, whatever indignant protests he might make to himself about it, -that when the 1:15 train entered Seacliffe station he would be waiting -there on the platform for her. The thing was inevitable, like death. - -But inevitability did not spare him torment. And at last his remorse -insisted upon a compromise. He would meet Clare, he decided, but when he -had met her, he would proceed to torture her, subtly, shrewdly--seeking -vengeance for the tragedy that she had brought to his life, and the -spell that she had cast upon his soul. He would be the Grand Inquisitor. - -He was very white and haggard when the time came. He had reached the -station as early as one o'clock, and for a quarter of an hour had -lounged about the deserted platforms. Meanwhile the sun shone -gloriously, and the train as it ran into the station caught the sunlight -on its windows. The sight of the long line of coaches, curving into the -station like a flaming sword into its scabbard, gave him a mighty -heart-rending thrill. Yes, yes--he would torture her.... His eyes -glinted with diabolical exhilaration, and a touch of hectic colour crept -into his wan cheeks. He watched her alight from a third-class -compartment near the rear of the train. Then he lost her momentarily -amidst the emptying crowd. He walked briskly against the stream of the -throng, with a heart that beat fast with unutterable expectations. - -But how he loved her as he saw her coming towards him!--though he tried -with all his might to kindle hate in his heart. She smiled and held out -her tiny hand. He took it with a limpness that was to begin his torture -of her. She was to notice that limpness. - -"How is Helen?" was her first remark. - -Amidst the bustle of the luggage round the guard's van he replied -quietly: "Helen? Oh, she's all right. I didn't tell her you were -coming." - -"You were wise," she answered. - -A faint thrill of anticipation crept over him; this diabolical game was -interesting, fascinating, in its way; and would lead her very securely -into a number of traps. And why, he thought, did she think it was wise -of him not to have told Helen? - -In the station-yard she suddenly stopped to consult a time-table -hoarding. - -"What are you doing?" he asked. - -"I'm looking for the next train back to Millstead." - -"Not the _next_, surely?" - -"Why not? What do you think I've come for?" - -"I don't know in the least. What _have_ you come for?" - -She looked at him appealingly. He saw, with keen and instant relish, -that she had already noticed something of hostility in his attitude -towards her. The torture had begun. For the first time, she was subject -to his power and not he to hers. - -"I've come for a few minutes' conversation," she answered, quietly. "And -the next train back is at 3:18." - -"You mean to travel by that?" - -"Yes." - -"Then we needn't stay in the station till then, need we? Let's walk -somewhere. We've two whole hours--time enough to get right out of the -town and back again. I hate conversations in railway-stations." - -But his chief reason was a desire to secure the right scenic background -for his torture of her. - -"All right," she answered, and looked at him again appealingly. The -tears almost welled into his own eyes because of the deep sadness that -was in hers. How quick she was to feel his harshness!--he thought. How -marvellously sensitive was that little soul of hers to the subtlest -gradations of his own mood! What fiendish torture he could put her to, -by no more, might be, than the merest upraising of an eyebrow, the -faintest change of the voice, the slightest tightening of the lips! She -was of mercury, like himself; responsive to every touch of the emotional -atmosphere. And was not that the reason why she understood him with such -wonderful instinctive intimacy,--was not that the reason why the two of -them, out of the whole world, would have sought each other like twin -magnets? - -He led her, in silence, through the litter of mean streets near the -station, and thence, beyond the edge of the town, towards the meadows -that sloped to the sea. So far it had been a perfect day, but now the -sun was half-quenching itself in a fringe of mist that lay along the -horizon; and with the change there came a sudden pink light that lit -both their faces and shone behind them on the tawdry newness of the -town, giving it for once a touch of pitiful loveliness. He took her into -a rolling meadow that tapered down into a coppice, and as they reached -the trees the last shaft of sunlight died from the sky. Then they -plunged into the grey depths, with all the freshly-budded leaves -brushing against their faces, and the very earth, so it seemed, -murmuring at their approach. Already there was the hint of rain in the -air. - -"It's a long way to come for a few minutes' conversation," he began. - -She answered, ignoring his remark: "I had a letter from Helen this -morning." - -"_What_!" he exclaimed in sharp fear. He went suddenly white. - -"A letter," she went on, broodingly. "Would you like to see it?" - -He stared at her and replied: "I would rather hear from you what it was -about." - -He saw her brown eyes looking up curiously into his, and he had the -instant feeling that she would cry if he persisted in his torture of -her. The silence of that walk from the station had unnerved her, had -made her frightened of him. That was what he had intended. And she did -not know yet--did not know what he knew. Poor girl--what a blow was in -waiting for her! But he must not let it fall for a little while. - -She bit her lip and said: "Very well. It was about you. She was unhappy -about you. Dreadfully unhappy. She said she was going to leave you. She -also said--that she was going to leave you--to--to me." - -Her voice trembled on that final word. - -"Well?" - -She recovered herself to continue with more energy: "And I've come here -to tell you this--that if she does leave you, I shan't have you. That's -all." - -"You are making large assumptions." - -"I know. And I don't mind your sarcasm, though I don't think any more of -you for using it.... I repeat what I said--if Helen leaves you or if you -leave Helen, I shall have nothing more to do with you." - -"It is certainly kind of you to warn me in time." - -"You've never given Helen a fair trial. I know you and she are -ill-matched. I know you oughtn't to have married her at all, but that -doesn't matter--you've done it, and you've got to be fair to her. And if -you think that because I've confessed that I love you I'm in your power -for you to be cruel to, you're mistaken!" Her voice rose passionately. - -He stared at her, admiring the warm flush that came into her cheeks, and -all the time pitying her, loving her, agonisingly! - -"Understand," she went on, "You've got to look after Helen--you've got -to take care of her--watch her--do you know what I mean?" - -"No. What do you mean?" - -"I mean you must try to make her happy. She's sick and miserable, and, -somehow, you must cure her. I came here to see you because I thought I -could persuade you to be kind to her. I thought if you loved me at all, -you might do it for my sake. Remember I love Helen as well as you. Do -you still think I'm hard-hearted and cold? If you knew what goes on -inside me, the racking, raging longing--the-- No, no--what's the good of -talking of that to you? You either understand or else you don't, and if -you don't, no words of mine will make you.... But I warn you again, you -must cure Helen of her unhappiness. Otherwise, she might try to cure -herself--in any way, drastic or not, that occurred to her. Do you know -now what I mean?" - -"I'm afraid I don't, even yet." - -"Well"--her voice became harder--"it's this, if you want plain speaking. -Watch her in case she kills herself. She's thinking of it." - -He went ashen pale again and said quietly, after a long pause: "How do -you know that?" - -"Her letter." - -"She mentioned it?" - -"Yes." - -"And that's what you've come to warn me about?" - -"Yes. And to persuade you, if I could----" - -"Why did you decide that a personal visit was necessary?" - -"I shouldn't have cared to tell you all this by letter. And besides, a -letter wouldn't have been nearly as quick, would it? You see I only -received her letter this morning. After all, the matter's urgent enough. -One can easily be too late." - -He said, with eyes fixed steadily upon her: "Clare, you _are_ too late. -She drowned herself last night." - -He expected she would cry or break down or do something dramatic that he -could at any rate endure. But instead of that, she stared vacantly into -the fast-deepening gloom of the coppice, stared infinitely, terribly, -without movement or sound. Horror tore nakedly through her eyes like -pain, though not a muscle of her face stirred from that fearful, -statuesque immobility. Moments passed. Far over the intervening spaces -came the faint chiming of the half-hour on the town-hall clock, and -fainter still, but ominous-sounding, the swirl of the waves on the -distant beach as the wind rose and freshened. - -He could not bear that silence and that stillness of hers. It seemed as -though it would be eternal. And suddenly he saw that she was really -suffering, excruciatingly; and he could not bear it, because he loved -her. And then all his plans for torturing her, all his desires for -vengeance, all his schemes to make her suffer as he had suffered, all -the hate of her that he had manufactured in his heart--all was suddenly -gone, like worthless dust scoured by the gale. He perceived that they -were one in suffering as in guilt--fate's pathetic flotsam, aching to -cling together even in the last despairing drift. - -He cried, agonisingly: "Clare! Clare! Oh, for God's sake, don't stare at -me like that, Clare! Oh, my darling, my dear darling, I'm -sorry--sorry--I'm dead with sorrow! Clare--Clare--be kind to me, -Clare--kinder than I have been to you or to Helen! ..." - - - - -VIII - - -She said, quietly: "I must get back in time for my train." - -"No, no--not yet. Don't go. Don't leave me." - -"I must." - -"No--no----" - -"You know I must. Don't you?" - -He became calmer. It was as if she had willed him to become calmer, as -if some of the calmness of her was passing over to him. "Clare," he -said, eagerly, "Do you think I'm _bad_--am I--_rotten-souled_--because -of what's happened? Am I _damned_, do you think?" - -She answered softly: "No. You're not. And you mustn't think you are. -Don't I love you? Would I love you if you were rotten? Would you love me -if _I_ was?" - -He replied, gritting his teeth: "I would love you if you were filth -itself." - -"Ah, would you?" she answered, with wistful pathos in her voice. "But -I'm not like that. I love you for what I know you are, for what I know -you could be!" - -"Could be? Could have been! But Clare, Clare--who's to blame?" - -"So many things happen dreadfully in this world and nobody knows who's -to blame." - -"But not this, Clare. _We're_ to blame." - -"We can be to blame without being--all that you said." - -"Can we? Can we? There's another thing. If Helen had--had lived--she -would have had a baby in a few months' time...." - -He paused, waiting for her reply, but none came. She went very pale. At -last she said, with strange unrestfulness: "What can I say? What _is_ -there to say? ... Oh, don't let us go mad through thinking of it! We -_have_ been wrong, but have we been as wrong as that? Hasn't there been -fate in it? Fate can do the awfullest things.... My dear, dear man, we -should go mad if we took all that load of guilt on ourselves! It is too -heavy for repentance.... Oh, you're not _bad_, not inwardly. And neither -am I. We've been instruments--puppets----" - -"It's good to think so. But is it true?" - -"Before God, I think it is.... Think of it all right from the -beginning.... Right from the night you met us both at Millstead.... It's -easy to blame fate for what we've done, but isn't it just as easy to -blame ourselves for the workings of fate?" - -She added, uneasily: "I _must_ go back. My train. Don't forget the -time." - -"Can't you wait for the next?" - -"_Dear_, you _know_ I mustn't. How could I stay? Fate's finished with us -now. We've free-will.... Didn't I tell you we weren't _bad_? All that's -why I can't stay." - -They began to walk back to the railway-station. A mist-like rain was -beginning to fall, and everything was swathed in grey dampness. They -talked together like two age-long friends, partners in distress and -suffering; he told her, carefully and undramatically, the story of the -night before. - -She said to him, from the carriage-window just before the 3:18 steamed -out: "I shan't see you again for ever such a long while. I wish--I wish -I could stay with you and help you. But I can't.... You know why I -can't, don't you?" - -"Yes, I know why. We must be brave alone. We must learn, if we can, to -call ourselves good again." - -"Yes.... Yes.... We must start life anew. No more mistakes. And you must -grow back again to what you used to be.... The next few months will be -terrible--maddening--for both of us. But _I_ can bear them. Do you think -_you_ can--without me? If I thought you couldn't"--her voice took on a -sudden wild passion--"if I thought you would break down under the -strain, if I thought the fight would crush and kill you, I would stay -with you from this moment, and never, never leave you alone! I would--I -would--if I thought there was no other way!" - -He said, calmly and earnestly: "I can fight it, Clare. I shall not break -down. Trust me. And then--some day----" - -She interrupted him hurriedly. "I am going abroad very soon. I don't -know for how long, but for a long while, certainly. And while I am away -I shall not write to you, and you must not write to me, either. Then, -when I come back ..." - -He looked up into her eyes and smiled. - -The guard was blowing his whistle. - -"Be brave these next few months," she said again. - -"I will," he answered. He added: "I shall go home." - -"What? Home, Home to the millionaire soap-boiler?" (A touch of the old -half-mocking Clare.) - -"Yes. It's my home. They've always been very good to me." - -"Of course they have. I'm glad you've realised it." - -Then the train began to move. "Good-bye!" she said, holding out her -hand. - -"Good-bye!" he cried, taking it and clasping it quickly as he walked -along the platform with the train. "See you again," he added, almost in -a whisper. - -She gave him such a smile, with tears streaming down her cheeks, as he -would never, never forget. - -When he went out again into the station-yard the fine rain was falling -mercilessly. He felt miserable, sick with a new as well as an old -misery, but stirred by a hope that would never let him go. - -Back then to the Beach Hotel, vowing and determining for the future, -facing in anticipation the ordeals of the dark days ahead, summoning up -courage and fortitude, bracing himself for terror and conflict and -desire.... 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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/68676-0.zip b/old/68676-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index fe2ad8d..0000000 --- a/old/68676-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/68676-h.zip b/old/68676-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 4f572fd..0000000 --- a/old/68676-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/68676-h/68676-h.htm b/old/68676-h/68676-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index ec9ab86..0000000 --- a/old/68676-h/68676-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12495 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The passionate year by James Hilton. - </title> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; - text-indent:4%; -} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - -.tb { - text-align: center; - padding-top: .76em; - padding-bottom: .24em; - letter-spacing: 1.5em; - margin-right: -1.5em; -} - - .tdl {text-align: left;} - .tdr {text-align: right;} - .tdc {text-align: center;} - -.blockquote { - margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - - /* Poetry */ -.poem { - margin-left:10%; - margin-right:10%; - text-align: left; -} - -.poem br {display: none;} -.poem { display: inline-block; text-align: left; } -.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} -.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The passionate year, by James Hilton</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The passionate year</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: James Hilton</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 3, 2022 [eBook #68676]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PASSIONATE YEAR ***</div> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/passionate_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/passionate_frontispiece.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - - -<h1>THE PASSIONATE<br /> -YEAR</h1> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h3>BY</h3> - -<h2>JAMES HILTON</h2> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>BOSTON</h4> - -<h4>LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY</h4> - -<h5>1924</h5> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#BOOK_I">BOOK I</a></p> - -<p class="nind">The Summer Term</p> - -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#BOOK_II">BOOK II</a></p> - -<p class="nind">The Winter Term</p> - -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#INTERLUDE">INTERLUDE</a></p> - -<p class="nind">Christmas At Beachings Over</p> - -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#BOOK_III">BOOK III</a></p> - -<p class="nind">The Lent Term</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BOOK_I">BOOK I</a></h4> - -<h4>THE SUMMER TERM</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER ONE -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -"Ah, um yes, Mr. Speed, is it not?... Welcome, sir! Welcome to -Millstead!" Kenneth Speed gripped the other's hand and smiled. He was a -tall passably good-looking fellow in his early twenties, bright-eyed and -brown-haired. At the moment he was feeling somewhat nervous, and always -when he felt nervous he did things vigorously, as if to obscure his -secret trepidation. Therefore when he took hold of the soft moist hand -that was offered him he grasped it in such a way that its possessor -winced and gave a perceptible gasp. -</p> -<p> -"Delighted to meet you, sir," said the young man, briskly, and his -voice, like his action, was especially vigorous because of nervousness. -It was not nervousness of interviewing a future employer, or of -receiving social initiation into a new world; still less was it due to -any consciousness of personal inferiority; it was an intellectual -nervousness, based on an acute realisation of the exact moment when life -turns a fresh corner which may or may not lead into a blind alley. And -as Kenneth Speed felt the touch of this clammy elderly hand, he -experienced a sudden eager desire to run away, out of the dark study and -through the streets to the railway-station whence he had come. Absurd -and ignoble desire, he told himself, shrugging his shoulders slightly as -if to shake off an unpleasant sensation. He saw the past -kaleidoscopically, the future as a mere vague following-up of the -immediate present. A month ago he had been a resident undergraduate at -Cambridge. Now he was Kenneth Speed, B.A., Arts' Master at Millstead -School. The transformation seemed to him for the time being all that was -in life. -</p> -<p> -It was a dull glowering day towards the end of April, most appropriately -melancholy for the beginning of term. It was one of those days when the -sun had been bright very early, and by ten o'clock the sky dappled with -white clouds; by noon the whiteness had dulled and spread to leaden -patches of grey; now, at mid-afternoon, a cold wintry wind rolled them -heavily across the sky and piled them on to the deep gloom of the -horizon. The Headmaster's study, lit from three small windows through -which the daylight, filtered by the thick spring foliage of lime trees, -struggled meagrely, was darker even than usual, and Speed, peering -around with hesitant inquisitive eyes, received no more than a confused -impression of dreariness. He could see the clerical collar of the man -opposite gleaming like a bar of ivory against an ebony background. -</p> -<p> -The voice, almost as soft and clammy as the hand, went on: "I hope you -will be very comfortable here, Mr. Speed. We are—um yes—an -old foundation, and we have our—um yes—our -traditions—and—um—so forth.... You will take music and -drawing, I understand?" -</p> -<p> -"That was the arrangement, I believe." -</p> -<p> -His eyes, by now accustomed to the gloom, saw over the top of the -dazzling white collar a heavy duplicated chin and sharp clean-cut lips, -lips in which whatever was slightly gentle was also slightly shrewd. -Above them a huge promontory of a nose leaned back into deep-set eyes -that had each a tiny spark in them that pierced the dusk like the -gleaming tips of a pair of foils. And over all this a wide blue-veined -forehead curved on to a bald crown on which the light shone mistily. -There was fascination of a sort in the whole impression; one felt that -the man might be almost physically a part of the dark study, -indissolubly one with the leather-bound books and the massive mahogany -pedestal-desk; a Pope, perhaps, in a Vatican born with him. And when he -moved his finger to push a bell at his elbow Speed started as if the -movement had been in some way sinister. -</p> -<p> -"Ah yes, that will be all right—um—music and drawing. -Perhaps—um—commercial geography for the—um—lower -forms, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm afraid I don't know much about commercial geography." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, well—um yes—I suppose not. Still—easy to acquire, -you know. Oh yes, quite easy... Come in...." -</p> -<p> -This last remark, uttered in a peculiar treble wail, was in response to -a soft tap at the door. It opened and a man stepped into the shadows and -made his way to the desk with cat-like stealthiness. -</p> -<p> -"Light the gas, Potter... And by the way, Mr. Speed will be in to -dinner." He turned to the young man and said, as if the enquiry were -merely a matter of form: "You'll join us for dinner to-night, won't -you?" -</p> -<p> -Speed replied: "I shall be delighted." -</p> -<p> -He wondered then what it was in the dark study that made him feel eerily -sensitive and observant; so that, for instance, to watch Potter standing -on a chair and lighting the incandescent globes was to feel vividly and -uncannily the man's feline grace of movement. And what was it in the -Headmaster's quivering blade-like eyes that awakened the wonder as to -what these dark book-lined walls had seen in the past, what strange, -furtive conversations they had heard, what scenes of pity and terror and -fright and, might be, of blind suffering they had gazed upon? -</p> -<p> -The globes popped into yellow brilliance. The dark study took sudden -shape and coherence; the shadows were no longer menacing. And the -Headmaster, the Reverend Bruce Ervine, M.A., D.D., turned out to be no -more than a plump apoplectic-looking man with a totally bald head. -</p> -<p> -Speed's eyes, blinking their relief, wandered vacantly over the -bookshelves. He noticed Gibbon's "Decline and Fall" in twelve volumes, -the Expositor's Bible in twenty volumes, the Encyclopædia Britannica in -forty volumes, a long shelf of the Loeb classical series, and a huge -group of lexicons surmounting like guardian angels a host of small -school text-books. -</p> -<p> -"Dinner is at seven, then Mr. Speed. We—we do not -dress—except for—um yes—for special occasions.... If -you—um—have nothing to do this afternoon—you might -find a stroll into the town interesting—there are some -Roman—um—earthworks that are extremely—um -yes—extremely fascinating. Oh yes, really... Harrington's the -stationers will sell you a guide.... I don't think there are -any—um—duties we need trouble you with until to-morrow ... -um yes ... Seven o'clock then, Mr. Speed..." -</p> -<p> -"I shall be there, sir." -</p> -<p> -He bowed slightly and backed himself through the green-baize double -doors into the stone corridor. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -He climbed the stone flights of steps that led to the School House -dormitories and made his way to the little room in which, some hours -earlier, the school porter, squirming after tips, had deposited his -trunks and suit-case. Over the door, in neat white letters upon a black -background, he read: "Mr. K. Speed."—It seemed to him almost the name -of somebody else. He looked at it, earnestly and contemplatively, until -he saw that a small boy was staring at him from the dormitory doorway at -the end of the passage. That would never do; it would be fatal to appear -eccentric. He walked into the room and shut the door behind him. He was -alone now and could think. He saw the bare distempered walls with -patches of deeper colour where pictures had been hung; the table covered -with a green-baize cloth; the shabby pedestal-desk surmounted by a -dilapidated inkstand; the empty fire-grate into which somebody, as if in -derision, had cast quantities of red tissue-paper. An inner door opened -into a small bedroom, and here his critical eye roved over the plain -deal chest of drawers, the perfunctory wash-hand stand (it was expected, -no doubt, that masters would wash in the prefects' bathroom), and the -narrow iron bed with the hollow still in it that last term's occupant -had worn. He carried his luggage in through the separating door and -began to unpack. -</p> -<p> -But he was quite happy. He had always had the ambition to be a master at -a public-school. He had dreamed about it; he was dreaming about it now. -He was bursting with new ideas and new enthusiasms, which he hoped would -be infectious, and Millstead, which was certainly a good school, would -doubtless give him his chance. Something in Ervine's dark study had -momentarily damped his enthusiasm, but only momentarily; and in any case -he was not afraid of an uncomfortable bed or of a poorly-furnished room. -When he had been at Millstead a little while he would, he decided, -import some furniture from home; it would not, however, be wise to do -everything in a hurry. For the immediate present a few photographs on -the mantelpiece, Medici prints on the walls, a few cushions, books of -course, and his innumerable undergraduate pipes and tobacco-jars, would -wreak a sufficiently pleasant transformation. -</p> -<p> -He looked through the open lattice-windows and saw, three storeys below, -the headmaster's garden, the running-track, and beyond that the smooth -green of the cricket-pitch. Leaning out and turning his head sharply to -the left he could see the huge red blocks of Milner's and Lavery's, the -two other houses, together with the science buildings and the squat -gymnasium. He felt already intimate with them; he anticipated in a sense -the peculiar closeness of their relationship with his life. Their very -bricks and mortar might, if he let them, become part of his inmost soul. -He would walk amongst them secretly and knowingly, familiar with every -step and curve of their corridors, growing each day more intimate with -them until one day, might be, he should be a part of them as darkly and -mysteriously as Ervine had become a part of his study. Would he? He -shrank instinctively from such a final absorption of himself. And yet -already he was conscious of fascination, of something that would -permeate his life subtly and tremendously—that must do so, whether he -willed it or not. And as he leaned his head out of the window he felt -big cold drops of rain. -</p> -<p> -He shut the windows and resumed unpacking. Just as he had finished -everything except the hanging up of some of the pictures, he heard the -School clock chime the hour of four. He recollected that the porter had -told him that tea could be obtained in the Masters' Common-Room at that -hour. It was raining heavily now, so that a walk into the town, even -with the lure of old Roman earthworks, was unattractive. Besides, he -felt just pleasantly hungry. He washed his hands and descended the four -long flights to the ground-floor corridors. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -The Masters' Common-Room was empty save for a diminutive man reading the -<i>Farmer and Stockbreeder</i>. As Speed entered the little man turned -round in his chair and looked at him. Speed smiled and said, still with a -trace of that almost boisterous nervousness: "I hope I'm not intruding." -</p> -<p> -The little man replied: "Oh, not at all. Come and sit down. Are you -having tea?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"Then perhaps we can have it together. You're Speed, aren't you?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"Thought so. I'm Pritchard. Science and maths." -</p> -<p> -He said that with the air of making a vivid epigram. He had small, -rather feminine features, and a complexion dear as a woman's. Moreover -he nipped out his words, as it were, with a delicacy that was almost -wholly feminine, and that blended curiously with his far-reaching -contralto voice. -</p> -<p> -He pressed a bell by the mantelpiece. -</p> -<p> -"That'll fetch Potter," he said. "Potter's the Head's man, but the Head -is good enough to lend him to us for meals. I daresay we'll be alone. -The rest won't come before they have to." -</p> -<p> -"Why do you, then?" enquired Speed, laughing a little. -</p> -<p> -"Me?—Oh, I'm the victim of the railway time-table. If I'd caught a -later train I shouldn't have arrived here till to-morrow. I come from -the Isle of Man. Where do you come from?" -</p> -<p> -"Little place in Essex." -</p> -<p> -"You're all right then. Perhaps you'll be able to manage a week-end home -during the term. What's the Head put you on to?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, drawing and music. And he mentioned commercial geography, but I'm -not qualified for that." -</p> -<p> -"Bless you, you don't need to be. It's only exports and imports... -Potter, tea for two, please.... And some toast... Public-school man -yourself, I suppose." -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"Here?" -</p> -<p> -"No." -</p> -<p> -"Where, then, if you don't object to my questions?" -</p> -<p> -"Harrow." -</p> -<p> -Pritchard whistled. -</p> -<p> -After Potter had reappeared with the tea, he went on: "You know, Speed, -we've had a bit of gossip here about you. Before the vac. started. -Something that the Head's wife let out one night when Ransome—he's -the classics Master—went there to dinner. She rather gave Ransome the -impression that you were a bit of a millionaire." -</p> -<p> -Speed coloured and said hastily: "Oh, not at all. She's quite mistaken, -I assure you." -</p> -<p> -Pritchard paused, teacup in hand. "But your father is Sir Charles Speed, -isn't he?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -The assent was grudging and a trifle irritated. Speed helped himself to -toast with an energy that gave emphasis to the monosyllable. After -munching in silence for some minutes he said: "Don't forget I'm far more -curious about Millstead than you have any right to be about me. Tell me -about the place." -</p> -<p> -"My dear fellow, I——" his voice sank to a melodramatic -whisper—"I positively daren't tell you anything while <i>that</i> -fellow's about." (He jerked his head in the direction of the pantry -cupboard inside which Potter could be heard sibilantly cleaning the -knives.) "He's got ears that would pierce a ten-inch wall. But if you -want to make a friend of me come up to my room to-night—I'm over -the way in Milner's—and we'll have a pipe and a chat before -bedtime." -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "Sorry. But I'm afraid I can't to-night. Thanks all the -same, though. I'm dining at the Head's." -</p> -<p> -Pritchard's eyes rounded, and once again he emitted a soft whistle. "Oh, -you are, are you?" he said, curiously, and he seemed ever so slightly -displeased. He was silent for a short time; then, toying facetiously -with a slab of cake, he added: "Well, be sure and give Miss Ervine my -love when you get there." -</p> -<p> -"Miss Ervine?" -</p> -<p> -"Herself." -</p> -<p> -Speed said after a pause: "What's she like?" Again Pritchard jerked his -head significantly towards the pantry cupboard. "Mustn't talk shop here, -old man. Besides you'll find out quite soon enough what she's like." -</p> -<p> -He took up the <i>Farmer and Stockbreeder</i> and said, in rather a loud -tone, as if for Potter's benefit to set a label of innocuousness upon -the whole of their conversation: "Don't know if you're at all interested -in farming, Speed?—I am. My brother's got a little farm down in -Herefordshire..." -</p> -<p> -They chatted about farming for some time, while Potter wandered about -preparing the long tables for dinner. Speed was not especially -interested, and after a while excused himself by mentioning some letters -that he must write. He came to the conclusion that he did not want to -make a friend of Pritchard. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -At a quarter to seven he sank into the wicker armchair in his room and -gazed pensively at the red tissue-paper in the fire-grate. He had just a -few minutes with nothing particular to do in them before going -downstairs to dinner at the Head's. He was ready dressed and groomed for -the occasion, polished up to that pitch of healthy cleanliness and -sartorial efficiency which the undergraduate of not many weeks before -had been wont to present at University functions of the more fashionable -sort. He looked extraordinarily young, almost boyish, in his smartly cut -lounge suit and patent shoes; he thought so himself as he looked in the -mirror—he speculated a little humorously whether the head-prefect -would look older or younger than he did. He remembered Pritchard's -half-jocular reference to Miss Ervine; he supposed from the way -Pritchard had mentioned her that she was some awful spectacled -blue-stocking of a girl—schoolmasters' daughters were quite often -like that. On the whole he was looking forward to seven o'clock, partly -because he was eager to pick up more of the threads of Millstead life, -and partly because he enjoyed dining out. -</p> -<p> -Out in the corridor and in the dormitories and down the stone steps -various sounds told him, even though he did not know Millstead, that the -term had at last begun. He could hear the confused murmur of boyish -voices ascending in sudden gusts from the rooms below; every now and -then footsteps raced past his room and were muffled by the webbing on -the dormitory floor; he heard shouts and cries of all kinds, from -shrillest treble to deepest bass, rising and falling ceaselessly amid -the vague jangle of miscellaneous sound. Sometimes a particular voice or -group of voices would become separate from the rest, and then he could -pick up scraps of conversation, eager salutations, boisterous chaff, -exchanged remarks about vacation experiences, all intermittent and -punctuated by the noisy unpacking of suit-cases and the clatter of -water-jugs in their basins. He was so young that he could hardly believe -that he was a Master now and not a schoolboy. -</p> -<p> -The school-clock commenced to chime the hour. He rose, took a last view -of himself in the bedroom mirror, and went out into the corridor. A -small boy carrying a large bag collided with him outside the door and -apologised profusely. He said, with a laugh: "Oh, don't mention it." -</p> -<p> -He knew that the boy would recount the incident to everybody in the -dormitory. In fact, as he turned the corner to descend the steps he -caught a momentary glimpse of the boy standing stock still in the -corridor gazing after him. He smiled as he went down. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -He went round to the front entrance of the Headmaster's house and rang -the bell. It was a curious house, the result of repeated architectural -patchings and additions; its ultimate incongruity had been softened and -mellowed by ivy and creeper of various sorts, so that it bore the sad -air of a muffled-up invalid. Potter opened the door and admitted him -with stealthy precision. While he was standing in the hall and being -relieved of his hat and gloves he had time to notice the Asiatic and -African bric-a-brac which, scattered about the walls and tables, bore -testimony to Doctor Ervine's years as a missionary in foreign fields. -Then, with the same feline grace, Potter showed him into the -drawing-room. -</p> -<p> -It was a moderate-sized apartment lit by heavy old-fashioned gas -chandeliers, whose peculiar and continuous hissing sound emphasised the -awkwardness of any gap in the conversation. A baby-grand piano, with its -sound-board closed and littered with music and ornaments, and various -cabinets of china and curios, were the only large articles of furniture; -chairs and settees were sprinkled haphazard over the central area round -the screened fireplace. As Speed entered, with Potter opening the door -for him and intoning sepulchrally: "Mr. Speed," an answering creak of -several of the chairs betrayed the fact that the room was occupied. -</p> -<p> -Then the Head rose out of his armchair, book of some sort in hand, and -came forward with a large easy smile. -</p> -<p> -"Urn, yes—Mr. Speed—so glad—um, yes—may I -introduce you to my wife?—Lydia, this is Mr. Speed!" -</p> -<p> -At first glance Speed was struck with the magnificent appropriateness of -the name Lydia. She was a pert little woman, obviously competent; the -sort of woman who is always suspected of twisting her husband round her -little finger. She was fifty if she was a day, yet she dressed with a -dash of the young university blue-stocking; an imitation so insolent -that one assumed either that she was younger than she looked or that -some enormous brain development justified the eccentricity. She had -rather sharp blue eyes that were shrewd rather than far-seeing, and her -hair, energetically dyed, left one in doubt as to what colour nature had -ever accorded it. At present it was a dull brown that had streaks of -black and grey. -</p> -<p> -She said, in a voice that though sharp was not unpretty: "I'm delighted -to meet you, Mr. Speed. You must make yourself at home here, you know." -</p> -<p> -The Head murmured: "Um, yes, most certainly. At home—um, yes... Now -let me introduce you to my daughter... Helen, this is—um—Mr. -Speed." -</p> -<p> -A girl was staring at him, and he did not then notice much more than the -extreme size and brightness of her blue eyes; that, and some -astonishingly vague quality that cannot be more simply described than as -a sense of continually restrained movement, so that, looking with his -mind's eye at everybody else in the world, he saw them suddenly grown -old and decrepit. Her bright golden hair hung down her back in a -rebellious cascade; that, however, gave no clue to her age. The curious -serene look in her eyes was a woman's (her mother's, no doubt), while -the pretty half-mocking curve of her lips was still that of a young and -fantastically mischievous child. In reality she was twenty, though she -looked both older and younger. -</p> -<p> -She said, in a voice so deep and sombre that Speed recoiled suddenly as -though faced with something uncanny: "How are you, Mr. Speed?" -</p> -<p> -He bowed to her and said, gallantly: "Delighted to be in Millstead, Miss -Ervine." -</p> -<p> -The Head murmured semi-consciously: "Um, yes, delightful -place—especially in summer weather—trees, you -know—beautiful to sit out on the cricket ground—um, yes, -very beautiful indeed..." -</p> -<p> -Potter opened the door to announce that dinner was served. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -As Mrs. Ervine and the girl preceded them out of the room Speed heard -the latter say: "Clare's not come yet, mother."—Mrs. Ervine replied, -a trifle acidly: "Well, my dear, we can't wait for her. I suppose she knew -it was at seven..." -</p> -<p> -The Head, taking Speed by the arm with an air of ponderous intimacy, was -saying: "Don't know whether you've a good reading voice, Speed. If so, -we must have you for the lessons in morning chapel." -</p> -<p> -Speed was mumbling something appropriate and the Head was piloting him -into the dining-room when Potter appeared again, accompanied by a -dark-haired girl, short in stature and rather pale-complexioned. She -seemed quite unconcerned as she caught up the tail end of the procession -into the dining-room and remarked casually: "How are you, Doctor -Ervine?—So sorry I'm a trifle late. Friday, you know,—rather a -busy day for the shop." -</p> -<p> -The Head looked momentarily nonplussed, then smiled and said: "Oh, -not at all ... not at all... I must introduce you to our new -recruit—Mr. Speed.... This is Miss Harrington, a friend of my -daughter's. She—um, yes, she manage—most successfully, I may -say—the—er—the bookshop down in the town. Bookshop, -you know." -</p> -<p> -He said that with the air of implying: Bookshops are not ordinary shops. -</p> -<p> -Speed bowed; the Head went on boomingly: "And she is, I think I may -venture to say, my daughter's greatest friend. Eh?" -</p> -<p> -He addressed the monosyllable to the girl with a touch of shrewdness: -she replied quietly: "I don't know." The three words were spoken in that -rare tone in which they simply mean nothing but literally what they say. -</p> -<p> -In the dining-room they sat in the following formation: Dr. and Mrs. -Ervine at the head and foot respectively; Helen and Clare together at -one side, and Speed opposite them at the other. The dining-room was a -cold forlorn-looking apartment in which the dim incandescent light -seemed to accomplish little more than to cast a dull glitter of -obscurity on the oil-paintings that hung, ever so slightly askew, on the -walls. A peculiar incongruity in it struck Speed at once, though the -same might never have occurred to anybody else: the minute salt and -pepper-boxes on the table possessed a pretty feminine daintiness which -harmonised ill with the huge mahogany sideboard. The latter reminded -Speed of the board-room of a City banking-house. It was as if, he -thought, the Doctor and his wife had impressed their personalities -crudely and without compromise; and as if those personalities were so -diametrically different that no fusing of the two into one was ever -possible. Throughout the meal he kept looking first to his left, at Mrs. -Ervine, and then to his right at the Doctor, and wondering at what he -felt instinctively to be a fundamental strangeness in their life -together. -</p> -<p> -Potter, assisted by a speckle-faced maid, hovered assiduously around, -and the Doctor assisted occasionally by his wife, hovered no less -assiduously around the conversation, preventing it from lapsing into -such awkward silences as would throw into prominence the continual -hissing of the gas and his own sibilant ingurgitation of soup. The -Doctor talked rather loudly and ponderously, and with such careful and -scrupulous qualifications of everything he said that one had the -impressive sensation that incalculable and mysterious issues hung upon -his words; Mrs. Ervine's remarks were short and pithy, sometimes a -little cynical. -</p> -<p> -The Doctor seemed to fear that he had given Speed a wrong impression of -Miss Harrington. "I'm sure Mr. Speed will be surprised when I tell him -that he can have the honour of purchasing his <i>Times</i> from you each -morning, Clare," he said, lapping up the final spoonful of soup and -bestowing a satisfied wipe with his napkin on his broad wet lips. -</p> -<p> -Clare said: "I should think Mr. Speed would prefer to have it -delivered." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ervine said: "Perhaps Mr. Speed doesn't take the <i>Times</i>, -either." -</p> -<p> -Speed looked across to Clare with a humorous twist of the corners of the -mouth and said: "You can book me an order for the <i>Telegraph</i> if you -like, Miss Harrington." -</p> -<p> -"With pleasure, Mr. Speed. Any Sunday paper?" -</p> -<p> -"The <i>Observer</i>, if you will be so kind." -</p> -<p> -"Right." -</p> -<p> -Again the Doctor seemed to fear that he had given Speed a wrong -impression of Miss Harrington. "I'm sure Mr. Speed will be interested to -know that your father is a great littérateur, Clare." -</p> -<p> -Clare gave the Doctor a curious look, with one corner of her upper lip -tilted at an audacious upward angle. -</p> -<p> -The Doctor went on, leaning his elbows on the table as soon as Potter -had removed his soup-plate: "Mr. Harrington is the author of books on -ethics." -</p> -<p> -All this time Helen had not spoken a word. Speed had been watching her, -for she was already to him by far the most interesting member of the -party. He noticed that her eyes were constantly shifting between Clare -and anyone whom Clare was addressing; Clare seemed almost the centre of -her world. When Clare smiled she smiled also, and when Clare was pensive -there came into her eyes a look which held, besides pensiveness, a touch -of sadness. She was an extremely beautiful girl and in the yellow light -the coils of her hair shone like sheaves of golden corn on a summer's -day. It was obvious that, conversationally at any rate, she was -extremely shy. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ervine was saying: "You're going to take the music, Mr. Speed, are -you not?" -</p> -<p> -Speed smiled and nodded. -</p> -<p> -She went on: "Then I suppose you're fond of music." -</p> -<p> -"Doesn't it follow?" Speed answered, with a laugh. -</p> -<p> -She replied pertly: "Not neccessarily at all, Mr. Speed. Do you play an -instrument?" -</p> -<p> -"The piano a little." -</p> -<p> -The Head interposed with: "Um, yes—a wonderful instrument. We must -have some music after dinner, eh, Lydia?—Do you like Mendelssohn?" -(He gave the word an exaggeratedly German pronunciation). "My daughter -plays some of the—um—the <i>Lieder ohne Wörte</i>—um, -yes—the Songs Without Words, you know." -</p> -<p> -"I like <i>some</i> of Mendelssohn," said Speed. -</p> -<p> -He looked across at the girl. She was blushing furiously, with her eyes -still furtively on Clare. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -After dinner they all returned to the drawing-room, where inferior -coffee was distributed round in absurdly diminutive cups, Potter -attitudinising over it like a high-priest performing the rites of some -sinister religious ceremony. Clare and Helen sat together on one of the -settees, discoursing inaudibly and apparently in private; the Head -commenced an anecdote that was suggested by Speed's glance at a -photograph on the mantelpiece, a photograph of a coloured man attired in -loose-fitting cotton draperies. "My servant when I was in India," the -Head had informed Speed. "An excellent fellow—most—um, -yes—faithful and reliable. One of the earliest of my converts. I -well remember the first morning after I had engaged him to look after me -he woke me up with the words 'Chota Hazra, sahib'—" -</p> -<p> -Speed feigning interest, managed to keep his eyes intermittently on the -two girls. He wondered if they were discussing him. -</p> -<p> -"I said—'I can't—um—see Mr. Chota Hazra this time in the -morning.'" -</p> -<p> -Speed nodded with a show of intelligence, and then, to be on the safe -side if the joke had been reached, gave a slight titter. -</p> -<p> -"Of course," said the Head, after a pause, "it was all my imperfect -knowledge of Hindostanee. 'Chota hazra' means—um, -yes—breakfast!" -</p> -<p> -Speed laughed loudly. He had the feeling after he had laughed that he -had laughed too loudly, for everything seemed so achingly silent after -the echoes had died away, silent except for the eternal hiss of the gas -in the chandeliers. It was as if his laughter had startled something; he -could hear, in his imagination, the faint fluttering of wings as if -something had flown away. A curious buzzing came into his head; he -thought perhaps it might be due to the mediocre Burgundy that he had -drunk with his dinner. Then for one strange unforgettable second he saw -Helen's sky-blue eyes focussed full upon him and it was in them that he -read a look of half-frightened wonderment that sent the blood tingling -in his veins. -</p> -<p> -He said, with a supreme inward feeling of recklessness: "I would love to -hear Miss Ervine play Mendelssohn." -</p> -<p> -He half expected a dreadful silence to supervene and everybody to stare -at him as the author of some frightful conversational <i>faux pas</i>; he -had the feeling of having done something deliberately and provocatively -unconventional. He saw the girl's eyes glance away from him and the -blush rekindle her cheeks in an instant. It seemed to him also that she -clung closer to Clare and that Clare smiled a little, as a mother to a -shy child. -</p> -<p> -Of course it was all a part of his acute sensitiveness; his remark was -taken to be more than a touch of polite gallantry. Mrs. Ervine said: -"Helen's very nervous," and the Head, rolling his head from side to side -in an ecstasy of anticipation, said: "Ah yes, most certainly. Delightful -that will be—um, yes—most delightful. Helen, you must not -disappoint Mr. Speed on his first night at Millstead." -</p> -<p> -She looked up, shook her head so that for an instant all her face seemed -to be wrapped in yellow flame, and said, sombrely: "I can't -play—please don't ask me to." -</p> -<p> -Then she turned to Clare and said, suddenly: "I can't really, can I, -Clare?" -</p> -<p> -"You can," said Clare, "but you get nervous." -</p> -<p> -She said that calmly and deliberatively, with the air of issuing a final -judgment of the matter. -</p> -<p> -"Come now, Helen," boomed the Head, ponderously. "Mr. -Speed—um—is very anxious to hear you. It is very—um, -yes—silly to be nervous. Come along now." -</p> -<p> -There was a note in those last three words of sudden harshness, a faint -note, it is true, but one that Speed, acutely perceptive of such -subtleties, was quick to hear and notice. He looked at the Head and once -again, it seemed to him, the Head was as he had seen him that afternoon -in the dark study, a flash of malevolent sharpness in his eyes, a -menacing slope in his huge low-hanging nose. The room seemed to grow -darker and the atmosphere more tense; he saw the girl leave the settee -and walk to the piano. She sat on the stool for a moment with her hands -poised hesitatingly over the keyboard; then, suddenly, and at a furious -rate, she plunged into the opening bars of the Spring Song. Speed had -never heard it played at such an alarming rate. Five or six bars from -the beginning she stopped all at once, lingered a moment with her hands -over the keys, and then left the stool and almost ran the intervening -yards to the settee. She said, with deep passion: "I can't—I don't -remember it." -</p> -<p> -Clare said protectingly: "Never mind, Helen. It doesn't matter." -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "No, of course not. It's awfully hard to remember -music—at least, I always find it so." -</p> -<p> -And the Head, all his harshness gone and placidity restored in its place, -murmured. "Hard—um yes—very hard. I don't know how people -manage it at all. Oh, <i>very</i> difficult, don't you think so, Lydia?" -</p> -<p> -"Difficult if you're nervous," replied Mrs. Ervine, with her own -peculiar note of acidity. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VIII</h4> - -<p> -Conversation ambled on, drearily and with infinite labour, until -half-past nine, when Clare arose and said she must go. Helen then rose -also and said she would go with Clare a part of the way into the town, -but Mrs. Ervine objected because Helen had a cold. Clare said: "Oh, -don't trouble, Helen, I can easily go alone—I'm used to it, you know, -and there's a bright moon." -</p> -<p> -Speed, feeling that a show of gallantry would bring to an end an evening -that had just begun to get on his nerves a little, said: "Suppose I see -you home, Miss Harrington. I've got to go down to the general -post-office to post a letter, and I can quite easily accompany you as -far as the High Street." -</p> -<p> -"There's no need to," said Clare. "And I hope you're not inventing that -letter you have to post." -</p> -<p> -"I assure you I'm not," Speed answered, and he pulled out of his pocket -a letter home that he had written up in his room that afternoon. -</p> -<p> -Clare laughed. -</p> -<p> -In the dimly-lit hall, after he had bidden good night to Doctor and Mrs. -Ervine, he found an opportunity of speaking a few words to Helen alone. -She was waiting at the door to have a few final words with Clare, and -before Clare appeared Speed came up to her and began speaking. -</p> -<p> -He said: "Miss Ervine, please forgive me for having been the means of -making you feel uncomfortable this evening. I had no idea you were -nervous, or I shouldn't have dreamed of asking you to play. I know what -nervousness is, because I'm nervous myself." -</p> -<p> -She gave him a half-frightened look and replied: "Oh, it's all right, -Mr. Speed. It wasn't your fault. And anyhow it didn't matter." -</p> -<p> -She seemed only half interested. It was Clare she was waiting for, and -when Clare appeared she left Speed by the door and the two girls -conversed a moment in whispers. They kissed and said good night. -</p> -<p> -As Potter appeared mysteriously from nowhere and, after handing Speed -his hat and gloves, opened the front-door with massive dignity, Helen -threw her hands up as if to embrace the chill night air and exclaimed: -"Oh, what a lovely moon! I wish I was coming with you, Clare!" -</p> -<p> -There was a strange bewildering pathos in her voice. -</p> -<p> -Over the heavy trees and the long black pillars of shadow the windows of -the dormitories shone like yellow gems, piercing the night with radiance -and making a pattern of intricate beauty on the path that led to the -Headmaster's gate. Sounds, mysteriously clear, fell from everywhere upon -the two of them as they crossed the soft lawn and came in view of the -huge block of Milner's, all its windows lit and all its rooms alive with -commotion. They could hear the clatter of jugs in their basins, the -sudden chorus of boyish derision, the strident cry that pierced the -night like a rocket, the dull incessant murmur of miscellaneous sounds, -the clap of hands, the faint jabber of a muffled gramophone. Millstead -was most impressive at this hour, for it was the hour when she seemed -most of all immense and vital, a body palpitating with warmth and -energy, a mighty organism which would swallow the small and would sway -even the greatest of men. Tears, bred of a curious undercurrent of -emotion, came into Speed's eyes as he realised that he was now part of -the marvellously contrived machine. -</p> -<p> -Out in the lane the moon was white along one side of the road-way, and -here the lights of Millstead pierced through the foliage like so many -bright stars. Speed walked with Clare in silence for some way. He had -nothing particular to say; he had suggested accompanying her home partly -from mere perfunctory politeness, but chiefly because he longed for a -walk in the cool night air away from the stuffiness of the Head's -drawing-room. -</p> -<p> -When they had been walking some moments Clare said: "I wish you hadn't -come with me, Mr. Speed." -</p> -<p> -He answered, a trifle vacantly: "Why do you?" -</p> -<p> -"Because it will make Helen jealous." -</p> -<p> -He became as if suddenly galvanised into attention. "What! Jealous! -Jealous!—Of whom?—Of what?—Of you having me to take you -home?" -</p> -<p> -Clare shook her head. "Oh, no. Of you having me to take home." -</p> -<p> -He thought a moment and then said: "What, really?—Do you mean to tell -me that——" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," she interrupted. "And of course you don't understand it, do -you?—Men never understand Helen." -</p> -<p> -"And why don't they?" -</p> -<p> -"Because Helen doesn't like men, and men can never understand that." -</p> -<p> -He rejoined, heavily despondent: "Then I expect she dislikes me -venomously enough. For it was I who asked her to play the piano, wasn't -it?" -</p> -<p> -"She wouldn't dislike you any more for that," replied Clare. "But let's -not discuss her. I hate gossiping about my friends." -</p> -<p> -They chattered intermittently and inconsequently about books after that, -and at the corner of High Street she insisted on his leaving her and -proceeding to the general post-office by the shortest route. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWO -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -In the morning he was awakened by Hartopp the School House porter -ringing his noisy hand-bell through the dormitories. He looked at his -watch; it was half-past six. There was no need for him to think of -getting up yet; he had no early morning form, and so could laze for -another hour if he so desired. But it was quite impossible to go to -sleep again because his mind, once he became awake, began turning over -the incidents of the day before and anticipating those of the day to -come. He lay in bed thinking and excogitating, listening to the slow -beginnings of commotion in the dormitories, and watching bars of yellow -sunshine creeping up the bed towards his face. At half-past seven -Hartopp tapped at the door and brought in his correspondence. There was -a letter from home and a note, signed by the Head, giving him his work -time-table. He consulted it immediately and discovered that he was put -down for two forms that morning; four <i>alpha</i> in drawing and five -<i>gamma</i> in general supervision. -</p> -<p> -His letter from home, headed "Beachings Over, near Framlingay, Essex. -Tel. Framlingay 32. Stations: Framlingay 2½ miles; Pumphrey Bassett 3 -miles," ran as follows: -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<blockquote><p> -"MY DEAR KEN,—This will reach you on the first morning of term, won't -it, and your father and I both want you to understand that we wish you -every success. It seems a funny thing to do, teaching in a -boarding-school, but I suppose it's all right if you like it, only of -course we should have liked you to go into the business. I hope you can -keep order with the boys, anyhow, they do say that poor Mr. Rideaway in -the village has an awful time, the boys pour ink in his pockets when he -isn't looking. Father is going on business to Australia very soon and -wants me to go with him, perhaps I may, but it sounds an outlandish sort -of place to go to, doesn't it. Since you left us we've had to get rid of -Jukes—we found him stealing a piece of tarpaulin—so ungrateful, -isn't it, but we've got another under-gardener now, he used to be at -Peverly Court but left because the old duke was so mean. Dick goes back to -Marlborough to-day—they begin the same day as yours. By the way, why -did you choose Millstead? I'd never heard of it till we looked it up, it -isn't well-known like Harrow and Rugby, is it. We had old Bennett and -Sir Guy Blatherwick with us the last week-end, Sir Guy told us all about -his travels in China, or Japan, I forget which. Well, write to us, won't -you, and drop in if you get a day off any time—your affectionate -mother, FANNY."</p></blockquote> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -After he had read it he washed and dressed in a leisurely fashion and -descended in time for School breakfast at eight. Hartopp showed him his -place, at the head of number four table, and he was interested to see by -his plate a neatly folded <i>Daily Telegraph</i>. Businesslike, he -commented mentally, and he was glad to see it because a newspaper is an -excellent cloak for nervousness and embarrassment. His mother's hint -about his being possibly a bad disciplinarian put him on his guard; he -was determined to succeed in this immensely important respect right from -the start. Of course he possessed the enormous advantage of knowing from -recent experience the habits and psychology of the average -public-schoolboy. -</p> -<p> -But breakfast was not a very terrible ordeal. The boys nearest him -introduced themselves and bade him a cheerful good morning, for there is -a sense of fairness in schoolboys which makes them generous to -newcomers, except where tradition decrees the setting-up of some -definite ordeal. Towards the end of the meal Pritchard walked over from -one of the other tables and enquired, in a voice loud enough for at any -rate two or three of the boys to hear: "Well, Speed, old man, did you -have a merry carousal at the Head's last night?" -</p> -<p> -Speed replied, a little coldly: "I had a pleasant time." -</p> -<p> -"I suppose now," went on Pritchard, dropping his voice a little, but -still not sufficiently to prevent the nearest boys from hearing, "you -realise what I meant yesterday." -</p> -<p> -"What was that?" -</p> -<p> -"When I said that you'd find out soon enough what she was like." -</p> -<p> -Speed said crisply: "You warned me yesterday against talking shop. I -might warn you now." -</p> -<p> -"But that isn't shop." -</p> -<p> -"Well, whether it is or not I don't propose to discuss -it—<i>now</i>—and <i>here</i>." -</p> -<p> -Almost without his being aware of it his voice had risen somewhat, so -that at this final pronouncement the boys nearest him looked up with -curiosity tinged with poorly-concealed amusement. It was rather obvious -that Pritchard was unpopular. -</p> -<p> -Speed was sorry that he had not exercised greater control over his -voice, especially when Pritchard, reddening, merely shrugged his -shoulders and went away. -</p> -<p> -The boy nearest to Speed grinned and said audaciously: "That'll take Mr. -Pritchard down a peg, sir!" -</p> -<p> -Speed barked out (to the boy's bewilderment): "Don't be impertinent!" -</p> -<p> -For the rest of the meal he held up the <i>Telegraph</i> as a rampart -between himself and the world. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -He knew, at the end of the first school day, that he had been a success, -and that if he took reasonable care he would be able to go on being a -success. It had been a day of subtle trials and ordeals, yet he had, -helped rather than hindered by his peculiar type of nervousness, got -safely through them all. -</p> -<p> -Numerous were the pitfalls which he had carefully avoided. At school -meals he had courteously declined to share jam and delicacies which the -nearest to him offered. If he had he would have been inundated -immediately with pots of jam and boxes of fancy cakes from all quarters -of the table. Many a new Master at Millstead had finished his first meal -with his part of the table looking like the counter of an untidy -grocer's shop. Instinct rather than prevision had saved Speed from such -a fate. Instinct, in fact, had been his guardian angel throughout the -day; instinct which, although to some extent born of his recent -public-school experience, was perhaps equally due to that curious -barometric sensitiveness that made his feelings so much more acute and -clairvoyant than those of other people. -</p> -<p> -At dinner in the Masters' Common-Room he had met the majority of the -staff. There was Garforth, the bursar, a pleasant little man with a -loving-kindness overclouded somewhat by pedantry; Hayes-Smith, -housemaster of Milner's, a brisk, bustling, unimaginative fellow whose -laugh was more eloquent than his words; Ransome, a wizened Voltairish -classical master, morbidly ashamed of being caught in possession of any -emotion of any kind; Lavery, housemaster of North House (commonly called -Lavery's), whose extraordinary talent for delegating authority enabled -him to combine laziness and efficiency in a way both marvellous and -enviable; and Poulet, the French and German Master, who spoke far better -English than anybody in the Common-Room, except, perhaps, Garforth or -Ransome. Then, of course, there was Clanwell, whom Speed had already -met; Clanwell, better known "Fish-cake," a sporting man of great vigour -who would, from time to time, astonish the world by donning a black suit -and preaching from the Millstead pulpit a sermon of babbling meekness. -Speed liked him; liked all of them, in fact, better than he did -Pritchard. -</p> -<p> -At dinner, Pritchard sat next to him on one side and Clanwell on the -other. Pritchard showed no malice for the incident of that morning's -breakfast-time, and Speed, a little contrite, was affable enough. But -for all that he did not like Pritchard. -</p> -<p> -Pritchard asked him if he had got on all right that day, and Speed -replied that he had. Then Pritchard said: "Oh, well of course, the first -day's always easy. It's after a week or so that you'll find things a bit -trying. The first night you take prep, for instance. It's a sort of -school tradition that they always try and rag you that night." -</p> -<p> -Clanwell, overhearing, remarked fiercely: "Anyway, Speed, take my tip -and don't imagine it's a school tradition that any Master lets himself -be ragged." -</p> -<p> -Speed laughed. "I'll remember that," he said. -</p> -<p> -He remembered it on the following Wednesday night when he was down to -take evening preparation from seven until half-past eight. Preparation -for the whole school, except prefects, was held in Millstead Big Hall, a -huge vault-like chamber in which desks were ranged in long rows and -where the Master in charge sat on high at a desk on a raised dais. No -more subtle and searching test of disciplinary powers could have been -contrived than this supervision of evening preparation, for the room was -so big that it was impossible to see clearly from the Master's desk to -the far end, and besides that, the acoustics were so peculiar that -conversations in some parts of the room were practically inaudible -except from very close quarters. A new master suffered additional -handicap in being ignorant of the names of the vast majority of the -boys. -</p> -<p> -At dinner, before the ordeal, the Masters in the Common-Room had given -Speed jocular advice. "Whatever you do, watch that they don't get near -the electric-light switches," said Clanwell. Pritchard said: "When old -Blenkinsop took his first prep they switched off the lights and then -took his trousers off and poured ink over his legs." Garforth said: -"Whatever you do, don't lose your temper and hit anybody. It doesn't -pay." "Best to walk up and down the rows if you want them to stop -talking," said Ransome. Pritchard said: "If you do that they'll beat -time to your steps with their feet." Poulet remarked reminiscently: -"When I took my first prep they started a gramophone somewhere, and I -guessed they'd hidden it well, so I said: 'Gentlemen, anyone who -interrupts the music will have a hundred lines!' They laughed and were -quite peaceable afterwards." -</p> -<p> -Speed said, at the conclusion of the meal: "I'm much obliged to -everybody for the advice. I'll try to remember all of it, but I guess -when I'm in there I shall just do whatever occurs to me at the moment." -To which Clanwell replied, putting a hand on Speed's shoulder: "You -couldn't do better, my lad." -</p> -<p> -Speed was very nervous as he took his seat on the dais at five to seven -and watched the school straggling to their places. They came in quietly -enough, but there was an atmosphere of subdued expectancy of which Speed -was keenly conscious; the boys stared about them, grinned at each other, -seemed as if they were waiting for something to happen. Nevertheless, at -five past seven all was perfectly quiet and orderly, although it was -obvious that little work was being done. Speed felt rather as if he were -sitting on a powder-magazine, and there was a sense in which he was -eager for the storm to break. -</p> -<p> -At about a quarter-past seven a banging of desk-lids began at the far end -of the hall. -</p> -<p> -He stood up and said, quietly, but in a voice that carried well: "I -don't want to be hard on anybody, so I'd better warn you that I shall -punish any disorderliness very severely." -</p> -<p> -There was some tittering, and for a moment or so he wondered if he had -made a fool of himself. -</p> -<p> -Then he saw a bright, rather pleasant-faced boy in one of the back rows -deliberately raise a desk-lid and drop it with a bang. Speed consulted -the map of the desks that was in front of him and by counting down the -rows discovered the boy's name to be Worsley. He wondered how the name -should be pronounced—whether the first syllable should rhyme with -"purse" or with "horse." Instinct in him, that uncanny feeling for -atmosphere, embarked him on an outrageously bold adventure, nothing less -than a piece of facetiousness, the most dangerous weapon in a new -Master's armoury, and the one most of all likely to recoil on himself. -He stood up again and said: "Wawsley or Wurssley—however you call -yourself—you have a hundred lines!" -</p> -<p> -The whole assembly roared with laughter. That frightened him a little. -Supposing they did not stop laughing! He remembered an occasion at his -own school when a class had ragged a certain Master very neatly and -subtly by pretending to go off into hysterics of laughter at some -trifling witticism of his. -</p> -<p> -When the laughter subsided, a lean, rather clever-looking boy rose up in -the front row but one and said, impudently: "Please sir, I'm Worsley. I -didn't do anything." -</p> -<p> -Speed replied promptly: "Oh, didn't you? Well, you've got a hundred -lines, anyway." -</p> -<p> -"What for, sir"—in hot indignation. -</p> -<p> -"For sitting in your wrong desk." -</p> -<p> -Again the assembly laughed, but there was no mistaking the -respectfulness that underlay the merriment. And, as a matter of fact, -the rest of the evening passed entirely without incident. After the -others had gone, and when the school-bell had rung for evening chapel, -Worsley came up to the dais accompanied by the pleasant-faced boy who -dropped the desk-lid. Worsley pleaded for the remission of his hundred -lines, and the other boy supported him, urging that it was he and not -Worsley who had dropped the lid. -</p> -<p> -"And what is your name?" asked Speed. -</p> -<p> -"Naylor, sir." -</p> -<p> -"Very well, Naylor, you and Worsley can share the hundred lines between -you." He added smiling: "I've no doubt you're neither of you worse than -anybody else but you must pay the penalty of being pioneers." -</p> -<p> -They went away laughing. -</p> -<p> -That night Speed went into Clanwell's room for a chat before bedtime, -and Clanwell congratulated him fulsomely on his successful passage of -the ordeal. "As a matter of fact," Clanwell said, "I happen to know that -they'd prepared a star benefit performance for you but that you put them -off, somehow, from the beginning. The prefects get to hear of these -things and they tell me. Of course, I don't take any official notice of -them. It doesn't matter to me what plans people make—it's when any -are put into execution that I wake up. Anyhow, you may be interested to -know that the member's of School House subscribed over fifteen shillings to -purchase fireworks which they were going to let off after the switches -had been turned off! Alas for fond hopes ruined!" -</p> -<p> -Clanwell and Speed leaned back in their armchairs and roared with -laughter. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -At the end of the first week of life at Millstead, Speed was perfectly -happy. He seemed to have surmounted easily all the difficulties that had -confronted or that could confront him, and now there stretched away into -the future an endless succession of glorious days spent tirelessly in -the work that he loved. For he loved teaching. He loved boys. When he -got over his preliminary, and in some ways rather helpful nervousness he -was thoroughly at home with all of them. He invited those in his house -to tea, two or three at a time, almost every afternoon. He took a deep -and individual interest in all who showed distinct artistic or musical -abilities. He plunged adventurously into the revolutionising of the -School's arts curriculum; he dreamed of organising an exhibition of art -work in time for Speech Day, of reviving the moribund School musical -society, of getting up concerts of chamber music, of entering the School -choir for musical festivals. All the hot enthusiasm of youth he poured -ungrudgingly into the service of Millstead, and Millstead rewarded him -by liking him tremendously. The boys liked him because he was young and -agreeable, yet not condescendingly so; besides, he could play a game of -cricket that was so good-naturedly mediocre that nobody, after -witnessing it, could doubt that he was a fellow of like capabilities -with the rest. The Masters liked him because he was energetic and -efficient and did not ally himself with any particular set or clique -among them. -</p> -<p> -Clanwell said to him one evening: "I hope you won't leave at the end of -the term, Speed." -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "Why on earth should I?" -</p> -<p> -"We sometimes find that people who're either very good or very bad do -so. And you're very good." -</p> -<p> -"I'm so glad you think so." His face grew suddenly boyish with blushes. -</p> -<p> -"We all think so, Speed. And the Head likes you. We hope you'll stay." -</p> -<p> -"I'll stay all right. I'm too happy to want to go away." -</p> -<p> -Clanwell said meditatively: "It's a fine life if you're cut out for it, -isn't it? I sometimes think there isn't a finer life in the whole -world." -</p> -<p> -"I've always thought that." -</p> -<p> -"I hope you always will think it." -</p> -<p> -"And I hope so too." -</p> -<p> -Summer weather came like a strong flood about ten days after the opening -of term, and then Millstead showed herself to him in all her serene and -matchless beauty. He learned to know and expect the warm sunshine waking -him in the mornings and creeping up the bed till it dazzled his eyes; he -learned to know and to love the <i>plick-plock</i> of the cricket that was -his music as he sat by the open window many an afternoon at work. And at -night time, when the flaring gas jets winked in all the tiny windows and -when there came upwards the cheerful smell of coffee-making in the -studies, it was all as if some subtle alchemy were at work, transforming -his soul into the mould and form of Millstead. Something fine and mighty -was in the place, and his soul, passionately eager to yield itself, -craved for that full possession which Millstead brought to it. The spell -was swift and glorious. Sometimes he thought of Millstead almost as a -lover; he would stroll round at night and drink deep of the witchery -that love put into all that he saw and heard; the sounds of feet -scampering along the passage outside his door, the cold lawns with the -moon white upon them, the soft delicious flower-scents that rose up to -his bedroom window at night. The chapel seemed to him, to put it -epigrammatically, far more important because it belonged to Millstead -than because it belonged to Christ. Millstead, stiff-collared and -black-coated on a Sunday morning, and wondering what on earth it should -do with itself on Sunday afternoon, touched him far more deeply than did -the chatter of some smooth-voiced imported divine who knew Millstead -only from spending a bored week-end at the Head's house. To Speed, -sitting in the Masters' pew, and giving vent to his ever-ready -imagination, Millstead seemed a personification of all that was youthful -and clear-spirited and unwilling to pay any more than merely respectful -attention to the exhortations of elders. -</p> -<p> -He did not sentimentalise over it. He was not old enough to think -regretfully of his own school-days. It was the present, the present -leaning longingly in the arms of the future, that wove its subtle and -gracious spell. He did not kindle to the trite rhapsodies of middle-aged -"old boys." The "Thoughts of an Old Millsteadian on Revisiting the -School Chapel," published in the school magazine, stirred him not at -all. But to wander about on a dark night and to find his feet -beautifully at ease upon curious steps and corridors gave him pangs of -exquisite lover-like intimacy; he was a "new boy," eager for the future, -not an "old boy" sighing for the past. -</p> -<p> -And all this was accomplished so swiftly and effortlessly, within a few -weeks of his beginning at the school it was as if Millstead had filled a -void in his soul that had been gaping for it. -</p> -<p> -Only one spot in the whole place gave him a feeling of discomfort, and -that was the Headmaster's study. The feeling of apprehension, of -sinister attraction, that had come upon him when first he had entered -it, lessened as time and custom wore it away; yet still, secretly and in -shadow, it was there. All the sadness and pathos of a world seemed to be -congregated in the dark study, and to come out of it into the sunlit -corridors of the school was like the swift passing from the minor into -the major key. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -On Fridays he had an early morning form before breakfast and then was -completely free until four o'clock in the afternoon, so that if the -weather were sufficiently enticing he could fill the basket on his -bicycle with books and go cycling along the sweet-smelling sunlit lanes. -Millstead was just on the edge of the fen district; in one direction the -flat lands stretched illimitably to a horizon unbroken as the sea's -edge; a stern and lonely country, with nothing to catch the eye save -here and there the glint of dyke-water amongst tall reeds and afar off -some desert church-tower stiff and stark as the mast of a ship on an -empty sea. Speed did not agree with the general Common-Room consensus of -opinion that the scenery round Millstead was tame and unattractive; -secretly to him the whole district was rich with wild and passionate -beauty, and sometimes on these delectable Fridays he would cycle for -miles along the flat fen roads with the wind behind him, and return in -the afternoon by crawling romantic-looking branch-line trains which -always managed to remind him of wild animals, so completely had the -civilised thing been submerged in the atmosphere of what it had sought -to civilise. -</p> -<p> -But that was only on one side of Millstead. On the other side, and -beyond the rook-infested trees that were as ramparts to the south-west -wind, the lanes curved into the folds of tiny hills and lifted -themselves for a space on to the ridge of glossy heaths and took sudden -twists into the secrecies of red-roofed tree-hidden hamlets. And amidst -this country, winding its delicate way beneath arches of overhanging -greenery, ran the river Wade. -</p> -<p> -One Friday morning Speed cycled out to Parminters, a village about three -miles out of Millstead. Here there was a low hill (not more than a -couple of hundred feet), carpeted with springy turf and overlooking -innumerable coils of the glistening stream. At midday on a May morning -there was something indescribably restful, drowsy almost, in the scene; -the hill dropped by a sudden series of grassy terraces into the meadows, -and there was quite a quarter of a mile of lush grass land between the -foot of the slope and the river bank. It was an entrancing spectacle, -one to watch rather than to see; the silken droop of the meadows, the -waves of alternate shadow and sunlight passing over the long grasses, -the dark patches on the landscape which drifted eastwards with the -clouds. The sun, when it pierced their white edges and came sailing into -the blue, was full of warmth and beauty, warmth that awakened myriads of -insects to a drowsy buzzing contentment and beauty that lay like a soft -veil spread across the world. Speed, with a bundle of four <i>alpha</i> -geography essays in his pocket (he had, after all, decided that he was -competent to teach commercial geography to the lower forms), lay down -amongst the deep grass and lit a pipe. -</p> -<p> -He marked a few of the essays and then, smoking comfortably, settled to -a contented gaze across the valley. It was then, not until he had been -there some while, though, that he saw amidst the tall grasses of the -meadows a splash of blue in the midst of the deep green. It is strange -that at first he did not recognise her. He saw only a girl in a pale -blue dress stooping to pick grasses. She was hatless and golden-haired, -and in one hand she bore a bunch of something purple, some kind of long -grass whose name he did not know. He watched her at first exactly as he -might have watched some perfect theatrical spectacle, with just that -kind of detached admiration and rich impersonal enchantment. The pose of -her as she stooped, the flaunt of the grasses in her hand, the movement -of her head as she tossed back her laughing hair, the winding yellow -path she trampled across the meadows: all these things he watched and -strangely admired. -</p> -<p> -He lay watching for a long while, still without guessing who she was, -till the sun went in behind a cloud and he felt drowsy. He closed his -eyes and leaned back cushioned amongst the turf. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -He woke with a sensation of intense chilliness; the sun had gone in and -even its approximate position in the sky could not be determined because -of the heaviness of the clouds. He looked at his watch; it was ten -minutes past one; he must have slept for over an hour. -</p> -<p> -The sky was almost the most sinister thing he ever saw. In the east a -faint deathly pallor hung over the horizon, but the piling clouds from -the west were pushing it over the edge of the world. That faint pallor -dissolved across the sky into the greyness deepening into a western -horizon of pitch black. Here and there this was shot through with -streaks of dull and sombre flame as if each of the hills in that dark -land was a sulky volcano. It was cold, and yet the wind that blew in -from the gloom was strangely oppressive; the grasses bent low as if -weighed down by its passing. Deep in the cleft by Parminters the river -gleamed like a writhing venomous snake, the sky giving it the dull -shimmer of pewter. To descend across those dark meadows to the coils of -the stream seemed somehow an adventure of curious and inscrutable -horror. Speed stood up and looked far into the valley. The whole scene -seemed to him unnatural; the darkness was weird and baffling; the clouds -were the grim harbingers of a thunderstorm. And to him there seemed -momentarily a strangeness in the aspect of everything; something deep -and fearsome, imminent, perhaps, with tragedy. He felt within him a -sombre presaging excitement. -</p> -<p> -It began to rain, quietly at first, then faster, faster and at last -overwhelmingly. He had brought no mackintosh. He stuffed the essays into -his coat pocket, swung his bicycle off the turf where he had laid it, -and began to run down the hill with it. His aim was to get to the -village and shelter somewhere till the storm was over. Halfway down he -paused to put up his coat-collar, and there, looking across the meadows, -he saw again that girl in the pale-blue dress. He was nearer to her now -and recognised her immediately. She was dressed in a loose-fitting and -rather dilapidated frock which the downpour of rain had already made to -cling to the soft curves of her body; round her throat, tightly twined, -was a striped scarf which Speed, quick to like or to dislike what he -saw, decided was absolutely and garishly ugly. And yet immediately he -felt a swift tightening of his affection for her, for Millstead was like -that, full of stark uglinesses that were beautiful by their intimacy.... -She saw him and stopped. Details of her at that moment encumbered his -memory ever afterwards. She was about twenty yards from him and he could -see a most tremendous wrist-watch that she wore—an ordinary pocket -watch clamped on to a strap. And from the outside pocket of her dress -there protruded the chromatic cover of a threepenny novelette. (Had she -read it? Was she going to read it? Did she like it? he wondered -swiftly.) She still carried that bunch of grasses, now rather soiled and -bedraggled, tightly in her hand. He imagined, in the curiously vivid way -that was so easy to him, the damp feel of her palm; the heat and -perspiration of it: somehow this again, a symbol of secret and bodily -intimacy, renewed in him that sudden kindling affection for her. -</p> -<p> -He called out to her: "Miss Ervine!" -</p> -<p> -She answered, a little shyly: "Oh, how are you, Mr. Speed?" -</p> -<p> -"Rather wet just at present," he replied, striding over the tufts of -thick grass towards her. "And you appear to be even wetter than I am. -I'm afraid we're in for a severe thunderstorm." -</p> -<p> -"Oh well, I don't mind thunderstorms." -</p> -<p> -"You ought to mind getting wet." He paused, uncertain what to say next. -Then instinct made him suddenly begin to talk to her as he might have -done to a small child. "My dear young lady, you don't suppose I'm going -to leave you here to get drenched to the skin, do you?" -</p> -<p> -She shrugged her shoulders and said: "I don't know what you're going to -do." -</p> -<p> -"Have you had anything to eat?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't want anything." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I suggest that we get into the village as quick as we can and -stay there till the rain stops. I was also going to suggest that we -spent the time in having lunch, but as you don't want anything, we -needn't." -</p> -<p> -"But I don't want to wait in the village, Mr. Speed. I was just going to -start for home when it came on to rain." -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "Very well, if you want to get home you must let me take -you. You're not going to walk home through a thunderstorm. We'll have a -cab or something." -</p> -<p> -"And do you really think you'll get a cab in Parminters?" -</p> -<p> -He answered: "I always have a good try to get anything I want to." -</p> -<p> -For all her protests she came with him down the meadow and out into the -sodden lane. As they passed the gate the first flash of lightning lit up -the sky, followed five seconds after by a crash of thunder. -</p> -<p> -"There!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as if the thunder and lightning -somehow strengthened his position with her: "You wouldn't like to walk -to Millstead through that, would you?" -</p> -<p> -She shrugged her shoulders and looked at him as if she hated his -interference yet found it irresistible. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -It was altogether by good luck that he did get a cab in the village; a -Millstead cab had brought some people into Parminters and was just -setting back empty on the return journey when Speed met it in the narrow -lane. Once again, this time as he opened the cab-door and handed her -inside, he gave her that look of triumph, though he was well aware of -the luck that he had had. Inside on the black leather cushions he placed -in a conspicuously central position his hat and his bundle of essays, -and, himself occupying one corner, invited her to take the other. All -the time the driver was bustling round lifting the bicycle on to the -roof and tying it securely down, Speed sat in his corner, damp to the -skin, watching her and remembering that Miss Harrington had told him -that she hated men. All the way during that three-mile ride back to -Millstead, with the swishing of the rain and the occasional thunder and -the steady jog-trot of the horse's hoofs mingling together in a -memorable medley of sound, Speed sat snugly in his corner, watching and -wondering. -</p> -<p> -Not much conversation passed between them. When they were nearing -Millstead, Speed said: "The other day as I passed near your drawing-room -window I heard somebody playing the Chopin waltzes. Was it you?" -</p> -<p> -"It might have been." -</p> -<p> -He continued after a pause: "I see there's a Chopin recital advertised -in the town for next Monday week. Zobieski, the Polish pianist, is -coming up. Would you care to come with me to it?" -</p> -<p> -It was very daring of him to say that, and he knew it. She coloured to -the roots of her wet-gold hair, and replied, after a silence: "Monday, -though, isn't it?—I'm afraid I couldn't manage it. I always see Clare -on Mondays." -</p> -<p> -He answered instantly: "Bring Clare as well then." -</p> -<p> -"I—I don't think Clare would be interested," she replied, a little -confused. She added, as if trying to make up for having rejected his -offer rather rudely: "Clare and I don't get many chances of seeing each -other. Only Mondays and Wednesday afternoons." -</p> -<p> -"But I see you with her almost every day." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but only for a few minutes. Mondays are the only evenings that we -have wholly to ourselves." -</p> -<p> -He thought, but did not dare to say: And is it absolutely necessary that -you must have those evenings wholly to yourselves? -</p> -<p> -He said thoughtfully: "I see." -</p> -<p> -He said nothing further until the cab drew up outside the main gate of -Millstead School. He was going to tell the driver to proceed inside as -far as the porch of the Head's house, but she said she would prefer to -get out there and walk across the lawns. He smiled and helped her out. -As he looked inside the cab again to see if he had left any papers -behind he saw that the gaudily-coloured novelette had fallen out of her -pocket and on to the floor. He picked it up and handed it to her. "You -dropped this," he said merely. She stared at him for several seconds and -then took it almost sulkily. -</p> -<p> -"I suppose I can read what I like, anyway," she exclaimed, in a sudden -hot torrent of indignation. -</p> -<p> -He smiled, completely astonished, yet managed to say, blandly: "I'm sure -I never dreamt of suggesting otherwise." -</p> -<p> -He could see then from her eyes, half-filling with tears of humiliation, -that she realised that she had needlessly made a fool of herself. -</p> -<p> -"Please—please—don't come with me any further," she said, -awkwardly. "And thanks—thanks—very much—for—for -bringing me back." -</p> -<p> -He smiled again and raised his hat as she darted away across the wet -lawns. Then, after paying the driver, he walked straightway into the -school and down into the prefects' bathroom, where he turned on the -scalding hot water with jubilant anticipation. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -The immediate result of the incident was an invitation to dine at the -Head's a few days later. "It was very—um, yes—thoughtful and -considerate of you, Mr. Speed," said the Head, mumblingly. "My -daughter—a heedless child—just like her to omit -the—um—precaution of taking some—um, -yes—protection against any possible change in the weather." -</p> -<p> -"I was rather in the same boat myself, sir," said Speed, laughing. "The -thunderstorm was quite unexpected." -</p> -<p> -"Um yes, quite so. <i>Quite</i> so." The Head paused and added, with -apparent inconsequence: "My daughter is quite a child, Mr. -Speed—loves to gather flowers—um—botany, you know, -and—um—so forth." -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "Yes, I have noticed it." -</p> -<p> -Dinner at the Head's house was less formal than on the previous -occasion. It was a Monday evening and Clare Harrington was there. -Afterwards in the drawing-room Speed played a few Chopin studies and -Mazurkas. He did not attempt to get into separate conversation with Miss -Ervine; he chatted amiably with the Head while the two girls gossiped by -themselves. And at ten o'clock, pleading work to do before bed, he arose -to go, leaving the girls to make their own arrangements. Miss Ervine -said good-bye to him with a shyness in which he thought he detected a -touch of wistfulness. -</p> -<p> -When he got up to his own room he thought about her for a long while. He -tried to settle down to an hour or so of marking books, but found it -impossible. In the end he went downstairs and let himself outside into -the school grounds by his own private key. It was a glorious night of -starshine, and all the roofs were pale with the brightness of it. Wafts -of perfume from the flowers and shrubbery of the Head's garden accosted -him gently as he turned the corner by the chapel and into the winding -tree-hidden path that circumvented the entire grounds of Millstead. It -was on such a night that his heart's core was always touched; for it -seemed to him that then the strange spirit of the place was most alive, -and that it came everywhere to meet him with open arms, drenching all -his life in wild and unspeakable loveliness. Oh, how happy he was, and -how hard it was to make others realise his happiness! In the Common-Room -his happiness had become proverbial, and even amongst the boys, always -quicker to notice unhappy than happy looks, his beaming smile and firm, -kindling enthusiasm had earned him the nickname of "Smiler." -</p> -<p> -He sat down for a moment on the lowest tier of the pavilion seats, those -seats where generations of Millsteadians had hurriedly prepared -themselves for the fray of school and house matches. Now the spot was -splendidly silent, with the cricket-pitch looming away mistily in front, -and far behind, over the tips of the high trees, the winking lights of -the still noisy dormitories. He watched a bat flitting haphazardly about -the pillars of the pavilion stand. He could see, very faintly in the -paleness, the score of that afternoon's match displayed on the -indicator. Old Millstead parish bells, far away in the town, commenced -the chiming of eleven. -</p> -<p> -He felt then, as he had never felt before he came to Millstead, that the -world was full, brimming full, of wonderful majestic beauty, and that -now, as the scented air swirled round him in slow magnificent eddies, it -was searching for something, searching with passionate and infinite -desire for something that eluded it always. He could not understand or -analyse all that he felt, but sometimes lately a deep shaft of ultimate -feeling would seem to grip him round the body and send the tears -swimming into his eyes, as if for one glorious moment he had seen and -heard something of another world. It came suddenly to him now, as he sat -on the pavilion seats with the silver starshine above him and the air -full of the smells of earth and flowers; it seemed to him that something -mighty must be abroad in the world, that all this tremulous loveliness -could not live without a meaning, that he was on the verge of some -strange and magic revelation. -</p> -<p> -Clear as bells on the silent air came the sound of girls' voices. He -heard a rich, tolling "Good night, Clare!" Then silence again, silence -in which he seemed to know more things than he had ever known before. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THREE -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -One afternoon he called at Harrington's, in the High Street, to buy a -book. It was a tiny low-roofed shop, the only one of its kind in -Millstead, and with the sale of books it combined that of newspapers, -stationery, pictures and fancy goods. It was always dark and shadowy, -yet, unlike the Head's study at the school, this gloom possessed a -cheerful soothing quality that made the shop a pleasant haven of refuge -when the pavements outside were dazzling and sun-scorched. It was on such -an afternoon that Speed visited the shop for the first time. Usually he -had no occasion to, for, though he dealt with Harrington's, an -errand-boy visited the school every morning to take orders and saved him -the trouble of a walk into the village. This afternoon, however, he -recollected a text-book that he wanted and had forgotten to order; -besides, the heat of the mid-afternoon tempted him to seek shelter in -one or other of the tranquil diamond-windowed shops whose sun-blinds -sprawled unevenly along the street. It was the hottest day of the term, -so far. A huge thermometer outside Harrington's gave the shade -temperature as a little over seventy-nine; all the roadway was bubbling -with little gouts of soft tar. The innumerable dogs of Millstead, -quarrelsome by nature, had called an armistice on account of the heat, -and lay languidly across shady sections of the pavement. Speed, tanned -by a week of successive hot days, with a Panama pushed down over his -forehead to shield his eyes from dazzle, pushed open the small door and -entered the cool cavern of the shop. -</p> -<p> -His eyes, unaccustomed to the gloom, were blind for a moment, but he -heard movement of some kind behind the counter. "I want an atlas of the -British Isles," he said, feeling his way across the shop. "A school -atlas, I mean. Cheap, rather, you know—about a shilling or -one-and-sixpence." -</p> -<p> -He heard Clare's voice reply: "Yes, Mr. Speed, I know what you want. Hot -weather, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"Very." -</p> -<p> -She went on, searching meanwhile along some shelves: "Nice of you not to -bother about seeing me home the other night, Mr. Speed." -</p> -<p> -He said, with a touch of embarrassment: "Well, you see, you told me. -About—about Miss Ervine getting jealous, you know." -</p> -<p> -"It was nice of you to take my information without doubting it." -</p> -<p> -He said, rather to his own surprise: "As a matter of fact, I'm not sure -that I don't doubt it. Miss Ervine seems to me a perfectly delightful -and natural girl, far too unsophisticated to be jealous of anybody. The -more I see of her the more I like her." -</p> -<p> -After a pause she answered quietly: "Well, I'm not surprised at that." -</p> -<p> -"I suppose," he went on, "with her it's rather the opposite. I mean, the -more she sees of me the less she likes me. Isn't that it?" -</p> -<p> -"I shouldn't think she likes you any less than she did at first.... -Here's the atlas. It's one and three—I'd better put it on your -account, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, yes, of course.... So you think—" -</p> -<p> -She interrupted him quickly with: "Mr. Speed, you'd better not ask me -what I think. You're far more subtle in understanding people than I am, -and it won't take you long to discover what Helen thinks of you if you -set about with the intention.... Those sketch-blocks you ordered haven't -come in yet.... Well, good afternoon!" -</p> -<p> -Another customer had entered the shop, so that all he could do was to -return a rather dazed "Good afternoon" and emerge into the blazing High -Street. He walked back to the school in a state of not unpleasant -puzzlement. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -The term progressed, and towards the end of May occurred the death of -Sir Huntly Polk, Bart., Chairman of the Governors of Millstead School. -This would not have in any way affected Speed (who had never even met -Sir Huntly) had not a Memorial Service been arranged at which he was to -play Chopin's Funeral March on the chapel organ. It was a decent modern -instrument, operated usually by Raggs, the visiting organist, who -combined a past reputation of great splendour with a present passion for -the <i>vox humana</i> stop; but Speed sometimes took the place of Raggs -when Raggs wanted time off. And at the time fixed for the Sir Huntly Polk -Memorial Service Raggs was adjudicating with great solemnity at a -Northern musical festival. -</p> -<p> -Speed was not a particularly good organist, and it was only reluctantly -that he undertook Raggs' duty for him. For one thing, he was always -slightly nervous of doing things in public. And for another thing, he -would have to practice a great deal in order to prepare himself for the -occasion, and he had neither the time nor the inclination for hours of -practice. However, when the Head said: "I know I can—um, -yes—rely upon you, Mr. Speed," Speed knew that there was no way -out of it. Besides, he was feeling his way in the school with marvellous -ease and accuracy, and each new duty undertaken by special request -increased and improved his prestige. -</p> -<p> -After a few days' trial he found it was rather pleasant to climb the -ladder to the organ-loft amid the rich cool dusk of the chapel, switch -on the buzzing motor that operated the electric power, and play, not -only Chopin's Funeral March but anything else he liked. Often he would -merely improvise, beginning with a simple theme announced on single -notes, and broadening and loudening into climax. Always as he played he -could see the shafts of sunlight falling amidst the dusty pews, the -many-coloured glitter of the stained-glass in the oriel window, and in -an opaque haze in the distance the white cavern of the chapel entrance -beyond which all was light and sunshine. The whole effect, serene and -tranquillising, hardly stirred him to any distinctly religious emotion, -but it set up in him acutely that emotional sensitiveness to things -secret and unseen, that insurgent consciousness, clear as the sky, yet -impossible to translate into words, of deep wells of meaning beneath all -the froth and commotion of his five passionate senses. -</p> -<p> -There was a mirror just above the level of his eyes as he sat at the -keyboard, a mirror by means of which he could keep a casual eye on the -pulpit and choir-stalls and the one or two front pews. And one golden -afternoon as he was playing the <i>adagio</i> movement out of Beethoven's -"Sonata Pathétique," a stray side-glance into the mirror showed him that -he had an audience—of one. She was sitting at the end of the front -pew of all, nearest the lectern; she was listening, very simply and -unspectacularly. Speed's first impulse was to stop; his second to switch -off from the "Sonata Pathétique" into something more blatantly -dramatic. He had, with the first kindling warmth of the sensation of -seeing her, a passionate longing to touch somehow her emotions, or, if he -could not do that, to stir her sentimentality, at any rate; he would have -played the most saccharine picture-palace trash, with <i>vox humana</i> -and <i>tremolo</i> stops combined, if he had thought that by doing so he -could fill her eyes. Third thoughts, however, better than either the -second or first, told him that he had better finish the <i>adagio</i> -movement of the Sonata before betraying the fact that he knew she was -present. He did so accordingly, playing rather well; then, when the last -echoes had died away, he swung his legs over the bench and addressed -her. He said, in a conversational tone that sounded rather incongruous -in its surroundings: "Good afternoon, Miss Ervine!" -</p> -<p> -She looked up, evidently startled, and answered, with a half-smile: "Oh, -good afternoon, Mr. Speed." -</p> -<p> -He went on: "I hope I haven't bored you. Is there anything in particular -you'd like me to play to you?" -</p> -<p> -She walked out of the pew and along the tiled arena between the -choir-stalls to a point where she stood gazing directly up at him. The -organ was on the south side of the choir, perched rather precipitously -in an overhead chamber that looked down on to the rest of the chapel -rather as a bay-window looks on to a street. To Speed, as he saw her, -the situation seemed somewhat like the balcony scene with the positions -of Romeo and Juliet reversed. And never, he thought, had she looked so -beautiful as she did then, with her head poised at an upward angle as if -in mute and delicate appeal, and her arms limply at her side, motionless -and inconspicuous, as though all the meaning and significance of her -were flung upwards into the single soaring glance of her eyes. A shaft -of sunlight, filtered through the crimson of an apostle's robe, struck -her hair and kindled it at once into flame; her eyes, blue and laughing, -gazed heavenwards with a look of matchless tranquillity. She might have -been a saint, come to life out of the sun-drenched stained-glass. -</p> -<p> -She cried out, like a happy child: "Oh, I <i>have</i> enjoyed it, Mr. -Speed! <i>All</i> of it. I <i>do</i> wish I could come up there and -watch you play!" -</p> -<p> -With startled eagerness he answered: "Come up then—I should be -delighted! Go round into the vestry and I'll help you up the ladder." -</p> -<p> -Instinct warned him that she was only a child, interested in the merely -mechanical tricks of how things were done; that she wanted to see the -working of the stops and pedals more than to hear the music; that this -impulse of hers did not betoken any particular friendliness for him or -admiration for his playing. Yet some secondary instinct, some quick -passionate enthusiasm, swept away the calculating logic of that, and -made him a prey to the wildest and raptest of anticipations. -</p> -<p> -In the vestry she blushed violently as he met her; she seemed more a -child than ever before. And she scampered up the steep ladder into the -loft with an agility that bewildered him. -</p> -<p> -He never dreamt that she could so put away all fear and embarrassment of -his presence; as she clambered up on to the end of the bench beside him -(for there was no seating-room anywhere else) he wondered if this were -merely a mood of hers, or if some real and deep change had come over her -since their last meeting. She was so delicately lovely; to see her -there, with her eyes upon him, so few inches from his, gave him a -curious electrical pricking of the skin. Sometimes, he noticed, her eyes -watched his hands steadily; sometimes, with a look half-bold, -half-timid, they travelled for an instant to his face. He even wondered, -with an egotism that made him smile inwardly, if she were thinking him -good-looking. -</p> -<p> -"Now," he said, beginning to pull out the necessary stops, "what shall -we have?—'The Moonlight Sonata,' eh?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," she assented, eagerly. "I've heard Clare talk about it." -</p> -<p> -He played it to her; then he played her a medley of Bach, Dvorak, -Mozart, Mendelssohn and Lemare. He was surprised and pleased to discover -that, on the whole, she preferred the good music to the not so good, -although, of course, her musical taste was completely unsophisticated. -Mainly, too, it was the music that kept her attention, though she had a -considerable childish interest in his manual dexterity and in the -mechanical arrangement of the stops and couplings. She said once, in a -pause between two pieces: "Aren't they strange hands?" He replied, -laughing away his embarrassment: "I don't know. Are they?" -</p> -<p> -After he had played, rather badly but with great verve, the <i>Ruy Blas</i> -Overture of Mendelssohn, she exclaimed: "Oh, I wish I could play like -that!" -</p> -<p> -He said: "But you do play the piano, don't you? And I prefer the piano -to the organ: it's less mechanical." -</p> -<p> -She clapped her hands together in a captivatingly childish gesture of -excitement and said: "Oh yes, the piano's lovely, isn't it? But I can't -play well—oh, I wish I could!" -</p> -<p> -"You could if you practised hard enough," he answered, with prosaic -encouragement. "I can hear you sometimes, you know, when I'm in my room -at nights and the window's open. I think you could become quite a good -player." -</p> -<p> -She leaned her elbow on the keys and started in momentary fright at the -resulting jangle of sound. "I—I get so nervous," she said. "I don't -know why. I could never play except to myself—and Clare." She added, -slowly, and as if the revelation had only barely come to her: "Do you -know—it's strange, isn't it—I think—perhaps—I think -I might be able to play in front of you—<i>now</i>—without -being nervous!" -</p> -<p> -He laughed boisterously and swung himself off the bench. "Very well, -then, that's fine news! You shall try. You shall play some of the Chopin -waltzes to me. Not very suitable for an organ, but that doesn't matter. -Sit further on this bench and play on the lower keyboard. Never mind -about the pedals. And I'll manage the stops for you." -</p> -<p> -She wriggled excitedly into the position he had indicated and, laughing -softly, began one of the best-known of the waltzes. The experiment was -not entirely successful, for even an accomplished pianist does not play -well on an organ for the first time, nor do the Chopin waltzes lend -themselves aptly to such an instrument. But one thing, and to Speed the -main thing of all, was quite obvious: she was, as she had said she would -be, entirely free from nervousness of him. After ploughing rather -disastrously through a dozen or so bars she stopped, turned to him with -flushed cheeks and happy eyes, and exclaimed: "There! That's enough! -It's not easy to play, is it?" -</p> -<p> -He said, smiling down at her: "No, it's rather hard, especially at -first.... But you weren't nervous then, were you?" -</p> -<p> -"Not a bit," she answered, proudly. She added, with a note of warning: -"Don't be surprised if I am when you come in to our house to dinner. I'm -always nervous when father's there." -</p> -<p> -Almost he added: "So am I." But the way in which she had mentioned -future invitations to dinner at the Head's house gave him the instant -feeling that henceforward the atmosphere on such occasions would he -subtly different from ever before. The Head's drawing-room, with the -baby grand piano and the curio-cabinets and the faded cabbage-like -design of the carpet, would never look quite the same again; the Head's -drawing-room would look, perhaps, less like a cross between a lady's -boudoir and the board-room of a City company; even the Head's study -might take on a kindlier, less sinister hue. -</p> -<p> -He said, still with his eyes smiling upon her: "Who teaches you the -piano?" -</p> -<p> -"A Miss Peacham used to. I don't have a teacher now." -</p> -<p> -"I don't know," he said, beginning to flush with the consciousness of -his great daring, "if you would care to let me help you at all. I should -be delighted to do so, you know, at any time. Since—" he laughed a -little—"since you're no longer a scrap nervous of me, you might find -me useful in giving you a few odd hints." -</p> -<p> -He waited, anxious and perturbed, for her reply. After a sufficient -pause she answered slowly, as if thinking it out: "That would -be—rather—fine—I think." -</p> -<p> -Most inopportunely then the bell began to ring for afternoon-school, -and, most inopportunely also, he was due to take five <i>beta</i> in -drawing. They clambered down the ladder, chatting vivaciously the while, -and at the vestry door, when they separated she said eagerly: "Oh, I've -had <i>such</i> a good time, Mr. Speed. Haven't you?" -</p> -<p> -"Rather!" he answered, with boyish emphasis and enthusiasm. -</p> -<p> -That afternoon hour, spent bewilderingly with five <i>beta</i> in the -art-room that was full of plaster casts and free-hand models and framed -reproductions of famous pictures, went for Speed like the passage of a -moment. His heart and brain were tingling with excitement, teeming with -suppressed consciousness. The green of the lawns as he looked out of the -window seemed greener than ever before; the particles of dust that shone -in the shafts of sunlight seemed to him each one mightily distinct; the -glint of a boy's golden hair in the sunshine was, to his eyes, like a -patch of flame that momentarily put all else in a haze. It seemed to -him, passionately and tremendously, that for the first time in his life -he was alive; more than that even: it seemed to him that for the first -time since the beginning of all things life had come shatteringly into -the world. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -"I should think, Mr. Speed, you have found out by now whether Helen -likes you or not." -</p> -<p> -Those words of Clare Harrington echoed in his ears as he walked amidst -the dappled sunlight on the Millstead road. They echoed first of all in -the quiet tones in which Clare had uttered them; next, they took on a -subtle, meaningful note of their own; finally, they submerged all else -in a crescendo of passionate triumph. Speed was almost stupefied by -their gradually self-revealing significance. He strode on faster, dug -his heels more decisively into the dust of the roadside; he laughed -aloud; his walking-stick pirouetted in a joyful circle. To any passer-by -he must have seemed a little mad. And all because of a few words that -Clare Harrington, riding along the lane on her bicycle, had stopped to -say to him. -</p> -<p> -June, lovely and serene, had spread itself out over Millstead like a -veil of purest magic; every day the sun climbed high and shone fiercely; -every night the world slept under the starshine; all the passage of -nights and days was one moving pageant of wonderment. And Speed was -happy, gloriously, overwhelmingly happy. Never in all his life before -had he been so happy; never had he tasted, even to an infinitesimal -extent, the kind of happiness that bathed and drenched him now. -Rapturously lovely were those long June days, days that turned Millstead -into a flaming paradise of sights and sounds. In the mornings, he rose -early, took a cold plunge in the swimming-bath, and breakfasted with the -school amidst the cool morning freshness that, by its very quality of -chill, seemed to suggest bewitchingly the warmth that was to come. -Chapel followed breakfast, and after that, until noon, his time was -spent in the Art and Music Rooms and the various form-rooms in which he -contrived to satisfy parental avidity for that species of geography -known as commercial. From noon until midday dinner he either marked -books in his room or went shopping into the town. During that happy hour -the cricket was beginning, and the dining-hall at one o'clock was gay -with cream flannels and variously chromatic blazers. Speed loved the -midday meal with the school; he liked to chat with his neighbours at -table, to listen to the catalogue of triumphs, anxieties, and -anticipations that never failed to unfold itself to the sympathetic -hearer. Afterwards he was free to spend the afternoon as he liked. He -might cycle dreamily along the sleepy lanes and find himself at tea-time -in some wrinkled little sun-scorched inn, with nothing to do but dream -his own glorious dreams and play with the innkeeper's languid dog and -read local newspapers a fortnight old. Or he might stay the whole -afternoon at Millstead, lazily watching the cricket from a deck-chair on -the pavilion verandah and sipping the tuck-shop's iced lemonade. Less -often he would play cricket himself, never scoring more than ten or a -dozen runs, but fielding with a dogged energy which occasionally only -just missed deserving the epithet brilliant. And sometimes, in the -excess of his enthusiasm, he would take selected parties of the boys to -Pangbourne Cathedral, some eighteen miles distant, and show them the -immense nave and the Lady Chapel with the decapitated statues and the -marvellous stained-glass of the Octagon. -</p> -<p> -Then dinner, conversational and sometimes boisterous, in the Masters' -Common-Room, and afterwards, unless it were his evening for taking -preparation, an hour at least of silence before the corridors and -dormitories became noisy. During this hour he would often sit by the -open window in his room and hear the rooks cawing in the high trees and -the <i>clankety-clank</i> of the roller on the cricket-pitch and all the -mingled sounds and commotions that seemed to him to make the silence of -the summer evenings more magical than ever. Often, too, he would hear -the sound of the Head's piano, a faint half-pathetic tinkle from below. -</p> -<p> -Half-past eight let loose the glorious pandemonium; he could hear from -his room the chiming of the school-bell, and then, softly at first, but -soon rising to a tempestuous flood, the tide of invasion sweeping down -the steps of the Big Hall and pouring into the houses. Always it -thrilled him by its mere strength and volume of sound; thrilled him with -pride and passion to think that he belonged to this heart that throbbed -with such onrushing zest and vitality. Soon the first adventurous -lappings of the tide reached the corridor outside his room; he loved the -noise and commotion of it; he loved the shouting and singing and yelling -and the boisterous laughter; he loved the faint murmur of conflicting -gramophones and the smells of coffee and cocoa that rose up from the -downstairs studies; he loved the sound of old Hartopp's voice as he -stood at the foot of the stairs at ten o'clock and shouted, in a key -that sent up a melodious echoing through all the passages and landings: -"Time, gentlemen, time!"—And when the lights in the dormitories had -all been put out, and Millstead at last was silent under the stars, he -loved above all things the strange magic of his own senses, that revealed -him a Millstead that nobody else had ever seen, a Millstead rapt and -ethereal, one with the haze of night and the summer starshine. -</p> -<p> -He told himself, in the moments when he reacted from the abandonment of -his soul to dreaming, that he was sentimental, that he loved too -readily, that beauty stirred him more than it ought, that life was too -vividly emotional, too mighty a conqueror of his senses. But then, in -the calm midst of reasoning, that same wild, tremulous consciousness of -wonder and romance would envelop him afresh like a strong flood; it was -a fierce, passionate ache in his bones, only to be forgotten for unreal, -unliving instants. And one moment, when he sat by the window hearing the -far-off murmur of Chopin on the Head's piano, he knew most simply and -perfectly why it was that all this was so. It was because he was very -deeply and passionately in love. In his dreams, his wild and bewitching -dreams, she was a fairy-child, ethereal and half unreal, the rapt -half-embodied spirit of Millstead itself, luring him by her sweet and -fragrant vitality. He saw in the sunlight always the golden glint of her -hair; in music no more than subtle and exquisite reminders of her; in -all the world of sights and sounds and feelings a deep transfiguring -passion that was his own for her. -</p> -<p> -And in the flesh he met her often in the school grounds, where she might -say: "Oh, Mr. Speed, I'm so glad I've met you! I want you to come in and -hear me play something." They would stroll together over the lawns into -the Head's house and settle themselves in the stuffy-smelling -drawing-room. Doctor and Mrs. Ervine were frequently out in the -afternoons, and Potter, it was believed, dozed in the butler's pantry. -Speed would play the piano to the girl and then she to him, and when -they were both tired of playing they talked awhile. Everything of her -seemed to him most perfect and delicious. Once he asked her tactfully -about reading novelettes, and she said: "I read them sometimes because -there's nothing in father's library that I care for. It's nearly all -sermons and Latin grammars." Immediately it appeared to him that all was -satisfactory and entrancingly explained; a vague unrestfulness in him -was made suddenly tranquil; her habit of reading novelettes made her -more dear and lovable than ever. He said: "I wonder if you'd like me to -lend you some books?—<i>Interesting</i> books, I promise -you."—She answered, with her child-like enthusiasm: "Oh, I'd love -that, Mr. Speed!" -</p> -<p> -He lent her Hans Andersen's fairy tales. -</p> -<p> -Once in chapel, as he declaimed the final verse of the eighty-eighth -Psalm, he looked for a fraction of a second at the Head's pew and saw -that she was watching him. "Lover and friend hast Thou put far from me, -and mine acquaintance into darkness."—He saw a blush kindle her -cheeks like flame. -</p> -<p> -One week-day morning he met the Head in the middle of the quadrangle. -The Head beamed on him cordially and said: "I understand, Mr. Speed, -that you—um—give my daughter—occasional—um, -yes—assistance with her music. Very kind of you, I'm -sure—um, yes—extremely kind of you, Mr. Speed." -</p> -<p> -He added, dreamily: "My daughter—still—um, yes—still a -child in many ways—makes few friends—um, yes—very few. -Seems to have taken quite an—um, yes—quite a <i>fancy</i> to -you, Mr. Speed." -</p> -<p> -And Speed answered, with an embarrassment that was ridiculously -schoolboyish: "Indeed, sir?—Indeed?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -Speech Day at Millstead. -</p> -<p> -Speed sat shyly on his chair on the platform, wrapping his gown -round him nervously, and gazing, every now and then, at the -fashionably-dressed throng that crowded the Big Hall to its utmost -capacity. It was a day of ordeals, but his own chief ordeal was safely -past; the school-choir had grappled quite creditably with Stanford's <i>Te -Deum</i> at the chapel service that morning. He was feeling very happy, -even amidst his nervousness. His eyes wandered to the end of the front -row of the auditorium, where Helen Ervine and Clare Harrington sat -together. They were gossiping and laughing. -</p> -<p> -The Chairman, Sir Henry Briggs, rose to introduce the principal guest, -Lord Portway. Lord Portway, so said Sir Henry Briggs, needed no -introduction. Lord Portway.... -</p> -<p> -Speed listened dreamfully. -</p> -<p> -Then Lord Portway. Lord Portway confessed himself to be a poor speaker, -but hoped that it would not always be those with a glib tongue that got -on in the world. (Laughter and cheers.) When he (Lord Portway) was at -school he was ashamed to say that he never received a single prize. -(More laughter.) He hoped that all the boys of Millstead, whether they -had prizes or not, would remember that it wasn't always the -prize-winners at school who did best in the battle of life. (Hear, -hear.) He would just like to give them all a word or two of advice. Be -thorough. (Cheers.) Brilliance wasn't everything. If he were engaging an -employee and he had the choice of two men, one brilliant and the other -thorough, he should choose the thorough one. He was certain that some, -at least, of those Millstead boys who had won no prizes would do great -things and become famous in after-life.... -</p> -<p> -Speed watched Doctor Ervine's face; saw the firm mouth expand, from time -to time, into a mirthless automatic smile whenever the audience was -stirred to laughter. And Mrs. Ervine fidgeted with her dress and glanced -about her with nervously sparkling eyes. -</p> -<p> -Finally, said Lord Portway, he would like to ask the Headmaster to grant -the boys of Millstead a whole holiday.... (Cheers, deafening and -continuous.) -</p> -<p> -It was, of course, the universal custom that Speech Day should be -followed by a week-end's holiday in which those boys who lived within -easy reach might go home. Many boys had already made their arrangements -and chosen their trains, but, respecting the theory that the holiday -depended on Lord Portway's asking for it, they cheered as if he had -conferred an inestimable boon upon them. -</p> -<p> -The Head, raising his hand when the clamour had lasted a sufficient -time, announced: "My Lord, I have—um—great pleasure in granting -your request." -</p> -<p> -More deafening cheers. The masters round about Speed, witnesses of this -little farce for a number of successive years varying from one to -thirty, smiled and whispered together condescendingly. -</p> -<p> -Sir Henry Briggs, thick-voiced and ponderous. "I—I call upon the -Headmaster ..." -</p> -<p> -Doctor Ervine rose, cleared his throat, and began: "My -Lord,—um—and Ladies and Gentlemen—." A certain -sage—he would leave it to his sixth-form boys to give the -gentleman's name—(Laughter)—had declared that that nation -was happy which had no history. It had often occurred to him that the -remark could be neatly and appositely adapted to a -public-school—happy was that public-school year about which, on -Speech Day, the Headmaster could find very little to say. (Laughter.) -Certainly it was true of this particular year. It had been a very happy -one, a very successful one, and really, there was not much else to say. -One or two things, however, he would like to mention especially. First, -in the world of Sport. He put Sport first merely because alphabetically -it came before Work. (Laughter.) Millstead had had a very successful -football and hockey season, and only that week at cricket they had -defeated Selhurst. (Cheers).... In the world of scholarship the year had -also been successful, no fewer than thirty-eight Millsteadians having -passed the Lower Certificate Examination of the Oxford and Cambridge -Board. (Cheers.) One of the sixth-form boys, A. V. Cobham, had obtained -an exhibition at Magdalen College, Cambridge. (Cheers.) H. O. -Catterwall, who left some years back, had been appointed Deputy Revenue -Commissioner for the district of—um—Bhungi-Bhoolu. (Cheers.) -Two boys, R. Heming and B. Shales, had obtained distinctions at London -University. (Cheers.).... Of the Masters, all he could say was that he -could not believe that any Headmaster in the country was supported by a -staff more loyal and efficient. (Cheers.) They had to welcome one -addition,—he might say, although he (the addition) had only been -at Millstead a few weeks—a very valued addition—to the -school staff. That was Mr. Speed. (Loud cheers). Mr. Speed was very -young, and youth, as they all knew, was very enthusiastic. (Cheers and -laughter.) In fact, although Mr. Speed had been at Millstead such a -short time, he had already earned and deserved the name of the School -Enthusiast. (Laughter.) He had had a very kind letter from Mr. Speed's -father, Sir Charles Speed—(pause)—regretting his inability, -owing to a previously contracted engagement, to be present at the Speech -Day celebrations, and he (the Head) was particularly sorry he could not -come because it would have done him good, he felt sure, to see how -universally popular at Millstead was his enthusiastic son. (Cheers and -laughter.) He hoped Millstead would have the benefit of Mr. Speed's -gifts and personality for many, many years to come. (Loud cheers.).... -He must not conclude without some reference to the sad blow that had -struck the school only a week or so before. He alluded to the lamented -passing-away of Sir Huntly Polk, for many years Chairman on the -Governing Board.... -</p> -<p> -Speed heard no more. He felt himself beginning to burn all over; he put -one hand to his cheek in a vague and instinctive gesture of -self-protection. Of course, behind his embarrassment he was pleased, -rapturously pleased; but at first his predominant emotion was surprise. -It had never occurred to him that the Head would mention him in a -speech, or that he would invite his father to the Speech Day ceremonies. -Then, as he heard the cheering of the boys at the mention of his name, -emotion swallowed his surprise and everything became a blur. -</p> -<p> -After the ceremony he met the two girls outside the Big Hall. Clare said: -"Poor man—you looked <i>so</i> uncomfortable while everybody was -cheering you! But really, you know, it is nice to be praised, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -And Helen, speaking softly so that no one else should hear, whispered: -"I daresay I can get free about nine o'clock to-night. We can go for a -walk, eh, Kenneth?—Nine o'clock by the pavilion steps, then." -</p> -<p> -Her voice, muffled and yet eager, trembled like the note of a bell on a -windy day. -</p> -<p> -Speed whispered, joyously: "Righto, Helen, I'll be there." -</p> -<p> -To such a pitch had their relationship developed as a result of -music-lessons and book-lendings and casual encounters. And now they were -living the most exquisite of all moments, when each could guess but -could not be quite certain of the other's love. Day had followed day, -each one more tremulously beautiful than the one before, each one more -exquisitely near to something whose beauty was too keen and blinding to -be studied; each day the light in their eyes had grown brighter, -fiercer, more bursting from within. But now, as they met and separated -in the laughing crowd that squirmed its way down the steps of the Big -Hall, some subtle telepathy between their minds told them that never -again would they shrink from the vivid joy of confession. To-night ... -thought Speed, as he went up to his room and slipped off his cap and -gown. And the same wild ecstasy of anticipation was in Helen's mind as -she walked with Clare across the lawns to the Head's house. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -That night the moon was full and high; the leaden roofs and cupola of -the pavilion gleamed like silver plaques; and all the cricket-pitch was -covered with a thin, white, motionless tide into which the oblong -shadows pushed out like the black piers of a jetty. Millstead was silent -and serene. A third of its inhabitants had departed by the evening -trains; perhaps another third was with its parents in the lounges of the -town hotels; the remainder, reacting from the day's excitement and -sobered by the unaccustomed sparseness of the population, was more -silent than usual. Lights gleamed in the dormitories and basement -bathrooms, but there was an absence of stir, rather than of sound, which -gave to the whole place a curious aspect of forlornness; no sudden -boisterous shout sent its message spinning along the corridor and out of -some wide-open window into the night. It was a world of dreams and -spells, and to Speed, standing in the jet-black shadow of the pavilion -steps, it seemed that sight and sound were almost one; that he could -hear moonlight humming everywhere around him, and see the tremor in the -sky as the nine o'clock chiming fell from the chapel belfry. -</p> -<p> -She came to him like a shy wraith, resolving out of the haze of -moonbeams. The bright gold of her hair, drenched now in silver, had -turned to a glossy blackness that had in it some subtle and unearthly -colour that could be touched rather than seen; Speed felt his fingers -tingle as at a new sensation. Something richly and manifestly different -was abroad in the world, something different from what had ever been -there before; the grey shining pools of her eyes were like pictures in a -trance. He knew, strangely and intimately, that he loved her and that -she loved him, that there was exquisite sweetness in everything that -could happen to them, that all the world was wonderfully in time and -tune with their own blind-fold yet miraculously self-guiding -inclinations. Tears, lovely in moonlight, shone in her clear eyes, eyes -that were deep and dark under the night sky; he put his arm around her -and touched his cheek with hers. It was as if his body began to dissolve -at that first ineffable thrill; he trembled vitally; then, after a pause -of magic, kissed her dark, wet, offering lips, not with passion, but -with all the wistful gentleness of the night itself, as if he were -afraid that she might fly away, mothlike, from a rough touch. The -moonlight, sight and sound fused into one, throbbed in his eyes and -ears; his heart, beating quickly, hammered, it seemed, against the -stars. It was the most exquisite and tremulous revelation of heaven, -heaven that knew neither bound nor end. -</p> -<p> -"Wonderful child!" he whispered. -</p> -<p> -She replied, in a voice deep as the diapason note of an organ: "<i>Am</i> I -wonderful?" -</p> -<p> -"<i>You</i> are," she said, after a pause. -</p> -<p> -He nodded. -</p> -<p> -"<i>I</i>?" He smiled, caressing her hair. "I feel—I feel, Helen, as -if nothing in the world had ever happened to me until this night! Nothing -at all!" -</p> -<p> -"<i>I</i> do," she whispered. -</p> -<p> -"As if—as if nothing in the world had ever happened to anybody until -now." -</p> -<p> -"You love me?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Kenneth." -</p> -<p> -"I love you." -</p> -<p> -"I'm—I'm—I'm glad." -</p> -<p> -They stood together for a long while with the moonlight on their faces, -watching and thinking and dreaming and wondering. The ten o'clock chimes -littered the air with their mingled pathos and cheer; the hour had been -like the dissolving moment of a dream. -</p> -<p> -As they entered the shadows of the high trees and came in sight of -Milner's, a tall cliff of winking yellow windows, they stopped and -kissed again, a shade more passionately than before. -</p> -<p> -"But oh," she exclaimed as they separated in the shadow of the Head's -gateway, "I <i>wish</i> I was clever! I wish I was as clever as you! I'm -not, Kenneth, and you mustn't think I am. I'm—I'm <i>stupid</i>, -compared with you. And yet"—her voice kindled with a strange -thrill—"and yet you say I'm wonderful! -<i>Wonderful</i>!—<i>Am</i> I?—Really wonderful?" -</p> -<p> -"Wonderful," he whispered, fervently. -</p> -<p> -She cried, softly but with passion: "Oh, I'm glad—glad—I'm -glad. It's—it's glorious to—to think that you think that. -But oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, don't find out that I'm not." She added, very -softly and almost as if reassuring herself of something: "I—I love -you very—<i>very</i> much." -</p> -<p> -They could not tear themselves away from each other. The lights in the -dormitories winked out one by one; the quarter-chimes sprinkled their -music on the moon-white lawns; yet still, fearful to separate, they -whispered amidst the shadows. Millstead, towering on all sides of them -vast and radiant, bathed them in her own deep passionless tranquillity; -Millstead, a little forlorn that night, yet ever a mighty parent, -serenely watchful over her children. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -He decided that night that he would write a story about Millstead; that -he would do for Millstead what other people had already done for Eton -and Harrow and Rugby. He would put down all the magic that he had seen -and felt; he would transfer to paper the subtle enchantment of the -golden summer days, the moonlit nights, the steamy warmth of -the bathrooms, the shouting in the dormitories, the buzz of -movement and conversation in the dining hall, the cool gloom of the -chapel—everything that came effortlessly into his mind whenever he -thought of Millstead. All the beauty and emotion and rapture that he had -seen and felt must not, he determined, be locked inside him: it -clamoured to be set free, to flow strongly yet purposefully in the -channel of some mighty undertaking. -</p> -<p> -Clanwell asked him in to coffee that night: from half-past ten till -half-past eleven Speed lounged in one of Clanwell's easy chairs and -found a great difficulty in paying attention to what Clanwell was -saying. In the end his thoughts burst, as it were, their barriers: he -said: "D'you know, Clanwell, I've had an idea—some time, you -know—to write a tale about Millstead?" -</p> -<p> -"Really?—A school story, you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. You see—I feel—oh, well—there's a sort of -atmosphere about the place, if you know what I mean—a rather -wonderful sort of atmosphere. If somebody could only manage to express -it in words they'd make rather a fine story, I should think." -</p> -<p> -Clanwell said: "Yes, I've known that atmosphere for a dozen years, but -I'm quite certain I could never write about it. And you think you -could?" -</p> -<p> -"I thought of trying, anyway, Millstead in summer-time—" Speed's -voice quivered with rapture—"It's simply divine!" -</p> -<p> -"But you haven't seen it in winter-time yet. You can't write a story -about one summer-term." -</p> -<p> -"No." Speed pondered, and said doubtfully: "No, I suppose not. It does -sound rather arrogant, doesn't it, for me to talk of writing a -school-story about Millstead after a few weeks at it, while you, after a -dozen years, don't feel equal to the task?" -</p> -<p> -"When one is young and in love," declared Clanwell slowly, "one feels -arrogant." -</p> -<p> -Speed laughed uproariously: it was as if Clanwell's remark had let loose -a cataract of emotion in him. "You despise my condition a little, don't -you?" he said. -</p> -<p> -"No," answered Clanwell, "I don't despise it at all: I just recognize -it, that's all." He paused and began again: "I wonder if you'll let me -speak to you a trifle seriously, Speed, without getting offended with -me?" -</p> -<p> -"Of course I will. Fire away!" -</p> -<p> -Clanwell knocked out his pipe on the bars of the empty firegrate and -said, rather curtly: "Don't see too much of Miss Ervine." -</p> -<p> -"What!" -</p> -<p> -Speed jerked forward in his chair and a sharp light entered his eyes. -Clanwell continued, unmoved: "You said you weren't going to get -offended, Speed. I hope you'll keep your promise. Understand, I've -nothing to say against Miss Ervine at all, and if I had, I shouldn't -take on the job of telling you about it. All that concerns me is just -the matter of—of expediency, if you like to put it that way." -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"Just this. It doesn't do you any good in the school to be seen -continually meeting her. The Common-Room, which liked you immensely at -first when you came, is just beginning to be slightly amused at you. And -the boys have noticed it, you may be sure. Probably you'll find yourself -beginning to be ragged about it soon." -</p> -<p> -"But I'm not frightened of being ragged." -</p> -<p> -"Oh no, I daresay not.... Still, I've said all I wanted to say. Don't -forget, Speed, that you're pledged not to take offence." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I'll not do that." -</p> -<p> -Just before Speed left Clanwell said: "I wouldn't start that tale of -Millstead life just yet if I were you, Speed. Better wait till you're -out of love, at any rate. After all, it's rather a highly coloured -Millstead that you see at present, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"You think I'm sentimental, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"My dear fellow, I think you're by far the most sentimental chap I've -ever come across!—Don't be hurt: it's not a crime. But it's just a -bit of a danger, especially in writing a school-story. That atmosphere you -talk about certainly <i>does</i> exist, and if I had the gift of -self-expression I might try to write about it. I can see it clearly -enough, even though I'm not a scrap in love, and even on the dreariest -of days in the winter term. My advice to you is to wait and see if you -can do the same.... Good night, Speed!" -</p> -<p> -"Good night," Speed called out, laughing. -</p> -<p> -Down Clanwell's corridor and up the stone flight of stairs and along his -own corridor to the door of his own room his heart was thumping -violently, for he knew that as soon as he was alone he would be drenched -in the wild, tumultuous rapture of his own thoughts. Clanwell's advice, -hazily remembered, faded before the splendour of that coming onrush; the -whole interview with Clanwell vanished as if it had never happened, as -if there had been a sort of cataleptic vacuum intervening between that -scene by the Head's gateway and the climb upstairs to his room. -</p> -<p> -When he got to bed he could hardly sleep for joy. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FOUR -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -The first thing that Clare Harrington said to him when they met a few -days later in Millstead High Street was: "Oh, congratulations, Mr. -Speed!" -</p> -<p> -"Congratulations?" he echoed. "What for?" -</p> -<p> -She replied quietly: "Helen has told me." -</p> -<p> -He began to blush, and to hold his breath in an endeavour to prevent his -cheeks from reddening to an extent that, so he felt, would be observed -by passers-by. "Oh!" he gasped, with a half-embarrassed smile. Then, -after a pause, he queried: "What has she told you?" -</p> -<p> -And Clare answered: "That you are going to marry her." -</p> -<p> -"Ah!" he exclaimed involuntarily, and he saw her eyes focussed on him -strangely. A slow sensation of warmth began to envelop him; joy rose -round him like a tide as he realised all the pivotal significance of -what Clare had said. He was going to marry Helen!—Strange that, even -amidst his most secret raptures, he had hardly dared to think of that! -He had dreamed exquisite and fragile dreams of her, dreams in which she -was too fairy-like and ethereal for marriage; doubtless, after some -while, his ambitions would have crystallised normally, but up to the -present they had no anchorage on earth at all. And to think that she had -travelled in mind and intention more swiftly and further than he, to -think that she had dared to deduce the final and ultimate reality, gave -him, along with a surging overmastering joy, just a faint tinge of -disappointment as well. But the joy, deepening and spreading, soon -blotted out everything else: he sought Clare's hand and gripped it -triumphantly. Tears were in his eyes and emotion clutching at his voice -as he said: "I'm—I'm glad—she's told you. It's—it's fine, -isn't it?—Don't you think we shall be—happy?" -</p> -<p> -"You ought to be," said Clare. -</p> -<p> -He struggled with the press of feeling for a moment and then said: "Oh, -let's go into Mason's and have a cup of coffee or something. I want to -talk to you." -</p> -<p> -So they sat for a quarter of an hour at a little green-tiled table in -Mason's highly respectable café. The room was over the shop, and -besides affording from the window a panoramic view of the High Street, -contained a small fire-grate, a framed picture of the interior of -Mason's Hygienic Bakery, and a large ginger-and-white cat with kittens. -Altogether it was a most secluded and comfortable rendezvous. -</p> -<p> -All the while that they conversed he was but slowly sizing up the -situation and experiencing little alternating wafts of disappointment -and exhilaration. Disappointment, perhaps, that he had not been left the -bewitching task of bringing Helen's mind, along with his own, out of the -clouds and mists of dreams; exhilaration also, because her mind, -womanishly direct, had evidently not needed such guidance. -</p> -<p> -He talked rhapsodically to Clare; lashed himself, as it were, into a -state of emotional fervour. He seemed eager to anticipate everything -that anybody could possibly say to Helen's disadvantage, and to explain -away the whole; it was as if he were championing Helen against subtle -and inevitable disparagements. Once or twice he seemed to realise this, -and to realise that he was defending where there was no attack, and then -he stopped, looked confused, and waited for Clare to say something. -Clare, as a matter of fact, said very little, and when she spoke Speed -took hardly any notice, except, perhaps, to allow her words to suggest -to him some fresh rhapsodical outbreak. He said, in a sudden outpouring: -"Of course I know she's only a child. That's the wonderful charm of -her—part of the wonderful charm, at any rate. Some people might say -she wasn't clever, but she is <i>really</i>, you know. I admit she doesn't -show up very well in company, but that's because she's nervous. I'm nervous -and I don't show up well. She's got an acute little brain, though. You -should hear the things she says sometimes. Simple little things, some -people might think, but really, when you think about them, they're -clever. Of course, she hasn't been educated up to a good many things, -but then, if she had been, she wouldn't have kept her child-like -simplicity, would she?—She's very quick at picking things up, and I'm -lending her heaps of books. It's the most beautiful job in the world, -being teacher to her. I'm rapturously happy about it and so is she. I -could never stand these empty-headed society kind of women who can -jabber superficially in drawing-rooms about every subject under the sun, -and really, you know, haven't got an original idea in their heads. Helen -has the most wonderful and child-like originality, you know. You've -noticed it yourself, I daresay. Haven't you noticed it?—Yes, I'm sure -you must have. And to think that she really does want to marry me!" -</p> -<p> -"Why shouldn't she want to marry you?" interjected Clare, but that was -one of the remarks of which he took little notice. He went on eagerly: -"I don't know what the Head will think when he gets to know about it. -Most probably he'll be fearfully annoyed. Clanwell warned me the other -night. Apparently—" a faint touch of bitterness came into his -voice—"apparently it isn't the thing to treat your Headmaster's -daughter with anything but the most distant reserve." -</p> -<p> -"Another question," said Clare shrewdly, "is what your people will think -about it." -</p> -<p> -"My people," he replied, again with the note of bitterness in his voice, -"will probably do what they have always done whenever I have proposed -taking any fresh step in life." -</p> -<p> -"I can guess what that is. They oppose you, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, not absolutely that. They recognise my right to do what I want, but -they think I'm a fool, all the same. They don't quarrel with me. They -just go on wishing I was like my elder brother." -</p> -<p> -"What is he?" -</p> -<p> -"He works in my father's office in town. My father, you know—" he -became suddenly confidential in tone—"is a rather typical sort of -business-man. Materialist outlook—wanted me to manage a soap-works. -We never got on absolutely well together. When I told him I was going to -get a mastership at a public school he thought I was mad." -</p> -<p> -"And what will he think when you tell him you are going to marry the -Headmaster's daughter?" -</p> -<p> -He looked at her curiously, for the first time intent upon her -personally, for something in the way she had uttered that last question -set up in him the suspicion that she was laughing at him. A careful -scrutiny of her features, however, revealed no confirmation: he looked -away again, shrugged his shoulders, and said: "Probably he'll think I'm -madder than ever." -</p> -<p> -She gave him a curious glance with uptilted lips which he could not -properly interpret. "Anyway," she said, quietly, "I shouldn't tell him -that Helen's a child." -</p> -<p> -"Why not?" -</p> -<p> -Clare gave him again that curious, uninterpretable glance. "Because she -isn't, that's all." -</p> -<p> -He was recovering from his surprise and was about to say something when -she interrupted him with, perhaps, the first touch of animation that had -so far distinguished her side of the conversation. "I told you," she -said, "on the first night of term that you didn't understand Helen. And -still you don't. If you did, you'd know that she was a woman, not a -child at all." -</p> -<p> -"I wish you'd explain a little—" -</p> -<p> -"It doesn't need any explanation. You either know it or don't know it. -Apparently you <i>don't</i> know it.... And now, Mr. Speed, I'm afraid I'll -have to go—I can't leave the boy to manage the shop by himself all -morning." -</p> -<p> -Speed had the sensation that she was slightly out of patience with him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -Clare brought him to earth; his dreams crumpled when he was with her; -his emotional outlook sagged, as it were, with the perhaps imagined -pricklings of her shrewdness. He hated her, ever so slightly, because he -felt sometimes between her and himself a subtle and secret hostility, a -hostility in which, because of her cool imperturbability, she had all -the advantage. But when he was not with her his imagination soared and -flamed up higher than ever; it was a fire that Clare's temperament could -only make sulky. Those final weeks of the summer term were glorious -beyond words. He took Clanwell's advice to the extent of not meeting -Helen on the school premises, but hardly a day passed without some -wonderful and secret assignation; the two of them would arrange -afternoon excursions together, picnics, at Parminters, strolls along the -Millstead road at dusk. It was all deeply and inexpressibly lovely. He -told her a great many of his own dreams and ambitions, making her share -them with him; she kindled aptly to his own enthusiasms, readily as a -child might have done. For he was certain that Clare was wrong in that: -Helen was only a child. To marry her seemed a thing of almost unearthly -delicacy; he found himself pitying her sometimes because of the future. -Above all, that she should wish to marry him, that her love should be -capable of such a solemn and ineffable desire, seemed to him nearly a -miracle. "Fragile little thing!" he said to her once, as he kissed -her—"I'm almost afraid of breaking you!"—She answered, in that -wistful childlike voice that was perhaps incongruously sombre in tone: -"<i>Am</i> I fragile?" -</p> -<p> -Once, towards dusk, they met the Head along the Millstead road. He -raised his hat and passed them, muttering: "Taking -an—um—stroll, Helen—um—beautiful -evening—um, yes—good evening, Mr. Speed!" -</p> -<p> -He wore the air of being marvellously discreet. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Conversation at dinner in the Masters' Common-Room turned one evening -upon Harrington. "Old Harrington's pretty bad again," Pritchard had -said. "I heard in the town to-day that he'd had another stroke." -</p> -<p> -Speed, curiously startled by the utterance of the name, exclaimed "What, -the Harringtons who keep the bookshop?—I didn't know he was ill." -</p> -<p> -"Been ill ever since I can remember," replied Pritchard, laconically. -</p> -<p> -Then Speed remembered something that the Head had once told him about -Harrington being a littérateur and and an author of books on ethics. -</p> -<p> -"I never met him," he said, tentatively, seeking to guide the -conversation into a discussion of the man. -</p> -<p> -Pritchard, ever ready to follow up a lead given to him, remarked: "You -missed something, then. He was quite a character. Used to teach here -once, you know." -</p> -<p> -"Really?" -</p> -<p> -"Used to <i>try</i> to, anyway, when they'd let him. Couldn't keep any sort -of discipline. During his first prep they poured ink down his neck." -</p> -<p> -"Pritchard needn't talk," interposed Clanwell, laughing. "During <i>his</i> -first prep they mixed carbide and water under his chair." The rest of -the Common-Room, among whom Pritchard was no favourite, joined in the -laughter. Then Clanwell took up the thread, kinder in his narrative than -Pritchard had been. "I liked Harrington. He was a good sort, but he -wasn't made for a schoolmaster. I told him so, and after his breakdown -he took my advice and left the profession." -</p> -<p> -"Breakdown?" said Speed. "He had a breakdown then?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, his wife died when his daughter was born. He never told us anything -about it. One morning he collapsed over a four <i>alpha</i> English -form. I was next door. I was used to a row, but the terrible pandemonium -made me wonder if anything had happened. I went in and found the little -devils giving him sportive first-aid. They'd half undressed him. My -word!—I picked out those that were in my house and gave them a tidy -thrashing. Don't you remember, Lavery?" -</p> -<p> -"I remember," said the indolent Lavery, "you trying to persuade me to do -the same with my little lot." -</p> -<p> -"But Harrington?" queried Speed, anxious that the conversation should -not be diverted into other channels. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, well," resumed Clanwell, "he left Millstead and took to—shall we -call it literature?" -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"What do I mean?—" Clanwell laughed. "D'you mean to tell me you -haven't heard of Samuel Harrington, author of the famous -'Helping-Hand-Books'?" -</p> -<p> -"I haven't." -</p> -<p> -"Then I must lend you one or two of them. They'll do you good. Lavery -and I attribute our remarkable success in life to our careful study of -them, don't we, Lavery?" -</p> -<p> -"Do we, Clanwell?" -</p> -<p> -Ransome, wizened and Voltairish, and agreeable company when stirred to -anecdote, began: "Ah! 'How to be Powerful' was the best, though I think -'How to Become a Dominating Personality' was pretty good. The drollest -of all was 'How to Meet Difficulties.' Speed has a treat in store if he -hasn't read them. They're all in the school-library. The fellow used to -send the Head free autographed copies of each one of them as it -appeared." -</p> -<p> -Ransome, rarely beguiled into conversation, always secured a respectful -audience. After a silence he went on: "I used to know old Harrington -pretty well after he took to—writing. He once told me the entire -circumstances of his début into the literary profession. It was rather -droll." -</p> -<p> -Ransome paused, and Speed said: "I'd like to hear it." -</p> -<p> -A murmur of assent followed from the rest, and Ransome, not without -pleasure at the flattery of his being eagerly listened to, crumbled a -piece of bread by his plate and resumed. "He told me that one morning -after he'd left Millstead he was feeling especially miserable and having -a breakfast of tea and dry bread. So he said, anyway. Remember that, at -that time, he had a baby to look after. The postman brought him, that -morning, a letter from an old school friend of his, a rector in -Somerset, asking him if he would care to earn half-a-guinea by writing -for him an address on 'Self-Control' for the Young Women's Sunshine Club -at Little Pelthing, Somerset. I remember the name of the club and the -village because I remember they struck me as being rather droll at the -time. Harrington said the letter, or part of it, went something like -this: I have just become the proud father of a most wonderful little -baby boy, and you can imagine how infernally busy as well as infernally -happy I am. Could you oblige me with an address on -'Self-Control'?—You were always rather good at dashing off essays -when we were at school. The address should have a strong moral flavour -and should last from half-an-hour to forty minutes.' ... Well, -Harrington sat down to write that address on 'Self-Control.' He told me -that he knew all that anybody need know about self-control, because he -was using prodigious quantities of it all the time he was writing. -Anyway, it was a fine address. The Reverend Henry Beauchamp -Northcroft—another name droll enough to be -remembered—delivered it to the united assembly of the Little -Pelthing Young Women's Sunshine Club, and everybody said it was the -finest and most inspiring address they had ever heard from his lips. It -glowed, as it were, from within; it radiated hope; it held a wonderful -and sublime message for mankind. And, in addition, it lasted from -half-an-hour to forty minutes. Nor was this all. A wealthy and -philanthropic lady in the Reverend Henry Beauchamp Northcroft's -congregation—Harrington <i>did</i> tell me her name, but I suspect -it was not droll enough for me to remember it—suggested that, at -her expense, the address should be printed and published in pamphlet -form. With Harrington's consent this was done, and, so he told me, no -fewer than twenty-five thousand copies of 'Self-Control' were despatched -to various centres in England, America, the Colonies, and on board His -Majesty's ships." -</p> -<p> -"Do you believe all this?" exclaimed Clanwell, laughing, to the -Common-Room in general. -</p> -<p> -"Whether you believe it or not," replied Ransome, severely, "it's -sufficiently droll for it to be worth hearing. And a large part of it is -true, at any rate." -</p> -<p> -"Go on then," said Clanwell. -</p> -<p> -Ransome (spreading himself out luxuriously), went on: "It seemed to -Harrington that having, to put it vulgarly, scored a fine though -anonymous bull's-eye with 'Self-Control,' he might, with profit, attempt -to do similar business on his own account. Accordingly, he wrote a -collection of some half-dozen didactic essays on such subjects as -'Immortality,' 'Health and Wealth,' 'The Art of Happiness,' and so on, -and sent them to a well-known publisher of works on religion and ethics. -This fellow, after a most unethical delay of several months, returned -them with his curt regrets and the information that such stuff was a -drug on the publishing market. Then Harrington, nothing in the least -daunted, sent them straightway off again to a publisher of sensational -novels. This last gentleman, he was a gentleman, for he replied almost -immediately, agreeing to publish if Mr. Harrington would—I'm -quoting hazily from the letter which Harrington showed me—if he -would 'undertake to supply a further eighteen essays to make up a book -of the customary eighty-thousand-word length.'—'You have a -distinct vein of humour,' wrote Mr. Potts, of Larraby and Potts, -Limited—that was the firm—'and we think your work would be -very saleable if you would throw off what appears to be a feeling of -restraint.'—So I guess Harrington just threw off this feeling of -restraint, whatever exactly it was, and began on those eighteen -essays.... I hope this tale isn't boring you." -</p> -<p> -"Not at all!"—"Go on!"—came the chorus. Ransome smiled. -</p> -<p> -"There isn't much to go on to. The book of essays was called -'Sky-Signs,' and it was reviewed rather pleasantly in some of the -papers. Then followed 'About It and About,' a further bundle of didactic -essays, which ran into five editions in six months. And then 'Through my -Lattice Window,' which was the sort of book you were not ashamed to take -into the pew with you and read during the offertory, provided, of -course, that it was handsomely bound in black morocco. And lastly came -the Helping-Hand-Books, which Mr. Speed must read if he is to consider -his education complete. That's all. The story's over." -</p> -<p> -After the first buzz of comment Speed said: "I suppose he made plenty of -money out of that sort of thing?" -</p> -<p> -Ransome replied: "Yes, he made it and then he lost it. He dabbled in -finance and had a geometrical theory about the rise and fall of rubber -shares. Then he got plentifully in debt and when his health began to -give way he took the bookshop because he thought it would be an easy way -to earn money. He'd have lost on that if his daughter hadn't been a born -business-woman." -</p> -<p> -"But surely," said Clanwell, "the money kept on trickling in from his -books?" -</p> -<p> -Ransome shook his head. "No, because he'd sold the copyrights for cash -down. He was a child in finance. But all the same he knew how to make -money. For that you should refer to his book, 'How to be Successful,' -<i>passim</i>. It's full of excellent fatherly advice." -</p> -<p> -Ransome added, with a hardly perceptible smile: "There's also a chapter -about Courtship and Marriage. You might find it interesting, Mr. Speed." -</p> -<p> -Speed blushed furiously. -</p> -<p> -Afterwards, strolling over to the House with Clanwell, Speed said: "I -say, was that long yarn Ransome told about Harrington true, do you -think?" Clanwell replied: "Well, it may have been. You can never be -quite certain with Ransome, though. But he does know how to tell a -story, doesn't he?" Speed agreed. -</p> -<p> -Late that night the news percolated, somehow or other, that old -Harrington was dead. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -Curious, perhaps, that Speed, who had never even seen the man, and whose -knowledge of him was derived almost solely from Ransome's "droll" story, -should experience a sensation of personal loss! Yet it was so, -mysteriously and unaccountably: the old man's death took his mind -further away from Millstead than anything had been able to do for some -time. The following morning he met Helen in the lane outside the school -and his first remark to her was: "I say, have you heard about old -Harrington?" -</p> -<p> -Helen said: "Yes, isn't it terrible?—I'm so sorry for Clare—I -went down to see her last night. Poor Clare!" -</p> -<p> -He saw tears in her eyes, and at this revelation of her abounding pity -and warm-heartedness, his love for her welled up afresh, so that in a -few seconds his soul was wholly in Millstead again. "You look tired, -Helen," he said, taking her by the arm and looking down into her eyes. -</p> -<p> -Then she burst into tears. -</p> -<p> -"I'm all right," she said, between gulps of sobbing. "It's so sad, -though, isn't it?—Death always frightens me. Oh, I'm so sorry for -Clare. Poor darling Clare! ... Oh, Kenneth—I <i>was</i> miserable -last night when I came home. I didn't know what to do, I was so -miserable. I—I <i>did</i> want to see you, and I—I walked -along the garden underneath Clanwell's room and I heard your voice in -there." -</p> -<p> -He said, clasping her arm tightly: "Yes, I went to Clanwell for coffee -after prep." -</p> -<p> -She went on pathetically: "You sounded so happy—I heard you laughing. -Oh, it was terrible to hear you laughing when I was miserable!" -</p> -<p> -"Poor little child!"—He bent down suddenly and kissed her eyes. -"What a sad and forlorn little girl you are this morning!—Don't -you guess why I'm so happy nowadays?" -</p> -<p> -"Why are you?" -</p> -<p> -He said, very slowly and beautifully: "Because of you. Because you have -made my life utterly and wonderfully different. Because all the beauty -in the world reminds me of you. When I wake up in the morning with the -sun on my face I want to roar with laughter—I don't know why, except -that I'm so happy." -</p> -<p> -She smiled gratefully and looked up into his face with large, tender -eyes. "Sometimes," she said, "beauty makes me want to cry, not to laugh. -Last night, in the garden, everything was so lovely, and yet so sad. -Don't you think beautiful things are sad sometimes?"—She paused and -went on, with less excitement: "When I went in, about ten o'clock, I was -so miserable I went in the dining-room to be alone. I was crying and -father came in." -</p> -<p> -"Well?" he whispered, eagerly. -</p> -<p> -"He wanted to know what was the matter." -</p> -<p> -"And you told him about Clare's father, I suppose?" -</p> -<p> -"No," she answered. "Don't be angry," she pleaded, laying a hand on his -arm. "I don't know what made me do it—I suppose it was instinct. -Anyway, you were going to, soon, even if I hadn't. I—I told father -about—us!" -</p> -<p> -"You did?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. Don't be angry with me." -</p> -<p> -"My darling, I'm not angry with you. What did he say?" -</p> -<p> -She came so close to him that he could feel her body trembling with -emotion. "He didn't mind," she whispered. "He didn't mind at all. -Kenneth, aren't you glad?—Isn't it fine of him?" -</p> -<p> -"Glorious!" he answered, taking a deep breath. Again the tide of joy -seemed to engulf him, joy immense and stupefying. He would have taken -her in his arms and kissed her had he not seen people coming along the -lane. "It's wonderful, Helen!" he whispered. Then some secondary thought -seemed to strike him suddenly: he said: "But why were you miserable a -little while ago? Didn't the good news make you feel happy?" -</p> -<p> -She answered, still with a touch of sadness: "I didn't know whether you -would think it was good news."—"Helen!" he exclaimed, -remonstratively, clasping her tightly to him: she went on, smiling at -him: "Yes, it's silly of me, isn't it?—But Kenneth, Kenneth, I -don't know how it is, I'm never quite certain of you—there's -always a funny sort of fear in my mind! I know it's silly. I can't help -it, though. Perhaps it will all be different some day." -</p> -<p> -"Some day!" he echoed, gazing into her uplifted eyes. -</p> -<p> -A vision, secret and excruciatingly lovely, filled their eyes for a -moment. He knew then that to marry her had become his blinding and -passionate ambition. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -The <i>Millstead and District Advertiser</i> had a long and sympathetic -appreciation of the late Mr. Samuel Harrington in its first July issue. -The Helping-Hand-Books were described as "pleasant little homilies -written with much charm and humour." Speed took one or two of them out -of the School Library and read them. -</p> -<p> -About a week after the funeral he called at the shop, ostensibly to buy -a book, but really to offer his condolences. He had been meaning to go, -for several days in succession, but a curious dread of an interview with -Clare had operated each time for postponement. Nor could he understand -this dread. He tried to analyse it, to discover behind it any -conceivable reason or motive; but the search was in vain. He was forced -to suppose, vaguely, that the cause of it was that slight but noticeable -temperamental hostility between himself and Clare which always resulted -in a clouding over of his dreams. -</p> -<p> -It was a chilly day for July; there was no sun, and the gas was actually -lit in the shop when he called. The boy, a smart under-sized youngster, -was there to serve him, but he asked for Miss Harrington. She must have -heard his voice, for she appeared almost straightway, dressed neatly and -soberly in black, and greeted him with a quite brisk: "Good afternoon, -Mr. Speed!" -</p> -<p> -He shook hands with her gravely and began to stammer: "I should have -called before, Miss Harrington, to offer you my sincerest sympathies, -but—" -</p> -<p> -She held up her hand in an odd little gesture of reproof and said -interrupting him: "Please don't. If you want a chat come into the back -room. Thomas can attend to the shop." -</p> -<p> -He accepted her invitation almost mechanically. It was a small room, -full of businesslike litter such as is usual in the back rooms of shops, -but a piano and bookcase gave it a touch of individuality. As she -pointed him to a seat she said: "Don't think me rude, but this is the -place for conversation. The shop is for buying things. You'll know in -future, won't you?" -</p> -<p> -He nodded somewhat vaguely. He could not determine what exactly was -astounding in her, and yet he realised that the whole effect of her was -somehow astounding. More than ever was he conscious of the subtle -hostility, by no means amounting to unfriendliness, but perhaps -importing into her regard for him a tinge of contempt. -</p> -<p> -"Do you know," he said, approaching the subject very deliberately, "that -until a very short time ago I knew nothing at all about Mr. Harrington? -You never told me." -</p> -<p> -"Why should I?" She was on her guard in an instant. -</p> -<p> -He went on: "You may think me sincere or not as you choose, but I should -like to have met him." -</p> -<p> -"He had a dislike of being met." -</p> -<p> -She said that with a touch of almost vicious asperity. -</p> -<p> -He went on, far less daunted by her rudeness than he would have been if -she had given way to emotion of any kind: "Anyway I have got to know him -as well as I can by reading his books." -</p> -<p> -"What a way to get to know him!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. She -looked him sternly in the face and said: "Be frank, Mr. Speed, and admit -that you found my father's books the most infantile trash you ever read -in your life!" -</p> -<p> -"Miss Harrington!" he exclaimed, protesting. She rose, stood over him -menacingly, and cried: "You have your chance to be frank, mind!" -</p> -<p> -He looked at her, tried to frame some polite reply, and found himself -saying astonishingly: "Well, to be perfectly candid, that was rather my -opinion." -</p> -<p> -"And mine," she added quietly. -</p> -<p> -She was calm in an instant. She looked at him almost sympathetically for -a moment, and with a sudden gesture of satisfaction sat down in a chair -opposite to his. "I'm glad you were frank with me, Mr. Speed," she said. -"I can talk to anybody who's frank with me. It's your nature to confide -in anybody who gives you the least encouragement, but it's not mine. I'm -rather reticent. I remember once you talked to me a lot about your own -people. Perhaps you thought it strange of me not to reciprocate." -</p> -<p> -"No, I never thought of it then." -</p> -<p> -"You didn't?—Well, I thought perhaps you might have done. Now that -you've shown yourself candid I can tell you very briefly the sort of man -my father was. He was a very dear old hypocrite, and I was very fond of -him. He didn't feel half the things he said in his books, though I think -he was honest enough to try to. He found a good thing and he stuck to -it. After all, writing books was only his trade, and a man oughtn't to -be judged entirely by what he's forced to do in order to make a living." -</p> -<p> -He stared at her half-incredulously. She was astounding him more than -ever. She went on, with a curious smile: "He was fifty-seven years old. -When he died he was half-way through his eleventh book. It was to have -been called 'How to Live to Three-Score-Years-and-Ten.' All about eating -nuts and keeping the bedroom windows open at nights, you know." -</p> -<p> -He wondered if he were expected to laugh. -</p> -<p> -He stammered, after a bewildered pause: "How is all this going to effect -you?—Will you leave Millstead?" -</p> -<p> -She replied, with a touch in her voice of what he thought might have -been mockery: "My father foresaw the plight I might be in some day and -thoughtfully left me his counsel on the subject. Perhaps you'd like me -to read it?" -</p> -<p> -She went over to the bookcase and took down an edition-de-luxe copy of -one of the Helping-Hand-Books. -</p> -<p> -"Here it is—'How to Meet Difficulties'—Page 38—I'll -read the passage—it's only a short one. 'How is it that the -greatest and noblest of men and women are those against whom Fate has -set her most tremendous obstacles?—Simply that it is good for a -man or a woman to fight, good to find paths fraught with dire perils and -difficulties galore, good to accept the ringing challenge of the gods! -Nay, I would almost go so far as to say: lucky is that boy or girl who -is cast, forlorn and parentless upon the world at a tender age, for if -there be greatness in him or her at all, it will be forced to show -itself as surely as the warm suns of May compel each flower to put forth -her bravest splendour!' ... So now you know, Mr. Speed!" -</p> -<p> -She had read the passage as if declaiming to an audience. It was quite a -typical extract from the works of the late Mr. Harrington: such phrases -as 'dire perils,' 'difficulties galore,' and 'ringing challenge of the -gods' contained all that was most truly characteristic of the prose -style of the Helping-Hand-Books. -</p> -<p> -Speed said, rather coldly: "Do you know what one would wonder, hearing -you talk like this?" -</p> -<p> -"What?" -</p> -<p> -"One would wonder if you had any heart at all." -</p> -<p> -Again the curious look came into her eyes and the note of asperity into -her voice. "If I had, do you think I would let you see it, Mr. Speed?" -she said. -</p> -<p> -They stared at each other almost defiantly for a moment; then, as if by -mutual consent, allowed the conversation to wander into unimportant -gossip about Millstead. Nor from those placid channels did it afterwards -stray away. Hostility of a kind persisted between them more patently -than ever; yet, in a curiously instinctive way, they shook hands when -they separated as if they were staunch friends. -</p> -<p> -As he stepped out into High Street the thought of Helen came to him as a -shaft of sunlight round the edges of a dark cloud. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -Term finished in a scurry of House-matches and examinations. School -House won the cricket trophy and there was a celebratory dinner at which -Speed accompanied songs and made a nervously witty speech and was -vociferously applauded. "We all know we're the best House," said -Clanwell, emphatically, "and what we've got to do is just to prove to -other people that we are." Speed said: "I've only been in School House a -term, but it's been long enough time for me to be glad I'm where I am -and not in any other House." (Cheers.) Amidst such jingoist -insincerities a very pleasant evening romped its way to a close. The -following day, the last day of term, was nearly as full of new -experiences as had been the first day. School House yard was full of -boxes and trunks waiting to be collected by the railway carriers, and in -amongst it all, small boys wandered forlornly, secretly happy yet weak -with the cumulative passion of anticipation. In the evening there was -the farewell dinner in the dining-hall, the distribution of the terminal -magazine, and the end-of-term concert, this last concluding with the -Millstead School-Song, the work of an uninspired composer in one of his -most uninspired moments. Then, towards ten o'clock in the evening, a -short service in chapel, followed by a "rag" on the school quadrangle, -brought the long last day to a close. Cheers were shouted for the -Masters, for Doctor and Mrs. Ervine, for those leaving, and -(facetiously) for the school porter. That night there was singing and -rowdyism in the dormitories, but Speed did not interfere. -</p> -<p> -He was ecstatically happy. His first term had been a triumph. And, -fittingly enough, it had ended with the greatest triumph of all. Ever -since Helen had told him of her confession to her father, Speed had been -making up his mind to visit the Head and formally put the matter before -him. That night, the last night of the summer term, after the service in -chapel, when the term, so far as the Head was concerned with it, was -finished. Speed had tapped at the door of the Head's study. -</p> -<p> -Once again the sight of that study, yellowly luminous in the -incandescent glow, set up in him a sensation of sinister attraction, as -if the room were full of melancholy ghosts. The Head was still in his -surplice, swirling his arms about the writing-table in an endeavour to -find some mislaid paper. The rows upon rows of shining leather-bound -volumes, somebody on the Synoptic Gospels, somebody else's New Testament -Commentary, seemed to surround him and enfold him like a protective -rampart. The cool air of the summer night floated in through the slit of -open window and blew the gas-light fitfully high and low. Speed thought, -as he entered the room and saw the Head's shining bald head bowed over -the writing-table: Here you have been for goodness knows how many years -and terms, and now has come the end of another one. Don't you feel any -emotion in it at all?—You are getting to be an old man: can you -bear to think of the day you first entered this old room and placed -those books on the shelves instead of those that belonged to your -predecessor?—Can you bear to think of all the generations that -have passed by, all the boys, now men, who have stared at you inside -this very room, while time, which bore them away in a happy tide, has -left you for ever stranded?—Why I, even I, can feel, after the -first term, something of that poignant melancholy which, if I were in -your place, would overwhelm me. Don't you—can't you—feel -anything at all— -</p> -<p> -The Head looked up, observed Speed, and said: "Um, yes—pleased to see -you, Mr. Speed—have you come to say good-bye—catching an early -train to-morrow, perhaps—um, yes—eh?" -</p> -<p> -"No, sir. I wanted to speak to you on a private matter. Can you spare me -a few moments?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh yes, most certainly. Not perhaps the—um—usual time for -seeing me, but still—that is no matter. I shall -be—um—happy to talk with you, Mr. Speed." -</p> -<p> -Speed cleared his throat, shifted from one foot to another, and began, -rather loudly, as always when he was nervous: "Miss Ervine, sir, I -believe, spoke to you some while ago about—about herself and me, -sir." -</p> -<p> -The Head placed the tips of his fingers together and leaned back in his -chair. -</p> -<p> -"That is so, Mr. Speed." -</p> -<p> -"I—I have been meaning to come and see you about it for some time. I -hope—I hope you didn't think there was anything underhand in my not -seeing you?" -</p> -<p> -The Head temporised suavely: "Well—um, yes—perhaps my -curiosity did not go so—um—so far as that. When you return -to your room, Mr. Speed, you will find there an—um—a note -from me, requesting you to see me to-morrow morning. I take it you have -not seen that note?" -</p> -<p> -"Not yet, sir." -</p> -<p> -"Ah, I see. I supposed when you entered that you were catching an early -train in the morning and were—um—purposing to see me to-night -instead.... No matter. You will understand why I wished to see you, no -doubt." -</p> -<p> -"Possibly the same reason that I wished to see you." -</p> -<p> -"Ah, yes—possibly. Possibly. You have -been—um—quite—um—speedy—in—um— -pressing forward your suit with my daughter. Um, yes—<i>very</i> -speedy, I think.... Speedy—Ha—Ha—um, yes—the -play upon words was quite accidental, I assure you." -</p> -<p> -Speed, with a wan smile, declared: "I daresay I am to blame for not -having mentioned it to you before now. I decided—I scarcely know -why—to wait until term was over.... I—I love your daughter, and -I believe she loves me. That's all there is to say, I think." -</p> -<p> -"Indeed, Mr. Speed?—It must be a very—um—simple matter -then." -</p> -<p> -Speed laughed, recovering his assurance now that he had made his -principal statement. "I am aware that there are complexities, sir." -</p> -<p> -The Head played an imaginary tune on his desk with his outstretched -fingers. "You must—u—listen to me for a little while, Mr. -Speed. We like you very much—I will begin, perhaps unwisely, by -telling you that. You have been all that we could have desired during -this last term—given—um—every satisfaction, indeed. -Naturally, I think too of my daughter's feelings. She is, as you say, -extremely—um—fond of you, and on you depends to a quite -considerable extent her—um—happiness. We could not -therefore, my wife and I, refuse to give the matter our very careful -consideration. Now I must—um—cross-examine you a little. You -wish to marry my daughter, is that not so?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"When?" -</p> -<p> -The Head flung out the question with disconcerting suddenness. -</p> -<p> -Speed, momentarily unbalanced, paused, recovered himself, and said -wisely: "When I can afford to, sir. As soon as I can afford to. You know -my salary and prospects, sir, and are the best judge of how soon I shall -be able to give your daughter the comforts to which she has been -accustomed." -</p> -<p> -"A clever reply, Mr. Speed. Um, yes—extremely clever. I gather that -you are quite convinced that you will be happy with my daughter?" -</p> -<p> -"I am quite convinced, sir." -</p> -<p> -"Then money is the only difficulty. What a troublesome thing money is, -Mr. Speed!—May I ask you whether you have yet consulted your own -parents on the matter?" -</p> -<p> -"I have not done so yet. I wanted your reply first." -</p> -<p> -"I see. And what—um—do you anticipate will be <i>their</i> -reply?" -</p> -<p> -Speed was silent for a moment and then said: "I cannot pretend that I -think they will be enthusiastic. They have never agreed with my actions. -But they have the sense to realise that I am old enough to do as I -choose, especially in such a matter as marriage. They certainly wouldn't -quarrel with me over it." -</p> -<p> -The Head stared fixedly at Speed for some while; then, with a soft, -crooning tone, began to speak. "Well, you know, Mr. Speed, you are very -young—only twenty-two, I believe."—(Speed interjected: -"Twenty-three next month, sir.")—The Head proceeded: "Twenty-three -then. It's—um—it's rather young for marriage. However, I -am—um, yes—inclined to agree with Professor Potts that one -of the—um—curses of our modern civilisation is that it -pushes the—um—marriageable age too late for the educated -man." (And who the devil, thought Speed, is Professor Potts?)... "Now it -so happens, Mr. Speed, that this little problem of ours can be settled -in a way which is satisfactory to myself and to the school, and which I -think will be equally satisfactory to yourself and my daughter. I don't -know whether you know that Lavery leaves this term?" -</p> -<p> -"I didn't know, sir." -</p> -<p> -"He has reached the—um—the retiring age. As perhaps you -know, Mr. Speed, Lavery belonged to the—um—old school. In -many ways, I think, the old methods were best, but, of course, one has -to keep up with the times. I am quite certain that the Governors will -look favourably on a very much younger man to be—um—Lavery's -successor. It would also bean advantage if he were married." -</p> -<p> -"Married!" echoed Speed. -</p> -<p> -"Yes. Married house masters are always preferred.... Then, again, Mr. -Speed, we should want a public-school man.... Of course, Lavery's is a -large House and the position is not one to be—um—lightly -undertaken. And, of course, it is for the Governors to decide, in the -last resort. But if you think about it, Mr. Speed, and if you favour the -idea, it will probably occur to you that you stand a rather good chance. -Of course it requires thinking over a great deal. Um, yes—decide -nothing in a hurry...." -</p> -<p> -Speed's mind, hazily receiving the gist of what the Head was saying, -began to execute a wild pirouette. He heard the Head's voice droning on, -but he did not properly hear anything more that was said. He heard in -snatches: "Of course you would have to take up your new duties in—um, -yes—September.... And for that purpose you would get married during -the vacation.... A great chance for you, Mr. Speed ... the Governors ... -very greatly impressed with you at Speech Day.... You would like -Lavery's .... an excellent House.... Plenty of time to think it over, -you know.... Um, yes—plenty of time.... When did you say you were -going home?" -</p> -<p> -Speed recovered himself so far as to answer: "Tuesday, sir." -</p> -<p> -"Um, yes—delightful, that is—you will be able to dine with us -to-morrow night then, no doubt?—Curious place, Millstead, when -everybody has gone away... Um, yes—extremely delightful... Think it -over very carefully, Mr. Speed ... we dine at seven-thirty during the -vacations, remember.... Good night, then, Mr. Speed.... Um, yes—Good -night!" -</p> -<p> -Speed staggered out as if intoxicated. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -That was why, hearing the singing and shouting in the dormitories that -night, Speed did not interfere. With happiness surging all around him -how could he have the heart to curtail the happiness of others?—About -half-past ten he went round distributing journey-money, and to each -dormitory in turn he said farewell and wished a pleasant vacation. The -juniors were scampering over one another's beds and pelting one another -with pillows. Speed said merely: "If I were you fellows, I should get to -sleep pretty soon: Hartopp will ring the bells at six, you know." -</p> -<p> -Then he went back into his own room, his room that would not be his any -more, for next term he would be in Lavery's. Noisy and insincere as had -been his protestations at the House Dinner about the superiority of -School House over any other, there was yet a sense in which he felt -deeply sorry to leave the place where he had been so happy and -successful. He looked back in memory to that first evening of term, and -remembered his first impression of the room assigned to him; then it had -seemed to him lonely, forlorn, even a little dingy. Hardly a trace of -that earliest aspect remained with it now. At eleven o'clock on the last -night of term it glowed with the warmth of a friendly heart; it held out -loving arms that made Speed, even amidst his joy, piteously sorry to -leave it. The empty firegrate, in which he had never seen a fire, lured -him with the vision of all the cosy winter nights that he had missed. -</p> -<p> -Outside it was moonlight again, as when, a month before, he had waited -by the pavilion steps on the evening of the Speech Day. From his open -lattice-window he could see the silver tide lapping against the walls -and trees, the pale sea of the pitch on which there would be no more -cricket, the roof and turret of the pavilion gleaming with liquid -radiance. All was soft and silent, glossy beneath the high moon. It was -as if everything had endured agelessly, as if the passing of a term were -no more than the half-heard tick of a clock in the life of Millstead. -</p> -<p> -Leaning out of the window he heard a voice, boyish and sudden, in the -junior dormitory below. -</p> -<p> -"I say, Bennett, are you going by the 8:22?" -</p> -<p> -An answer came indistinguishably, and then the curt command of the -prefect imposing silence, silence which, reigned over by the moon and -the sky of stars, lasted through the short summer night until dawn. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BOOK_II">BOOK II</a></h4> - -<h4>THE WINTER TERM</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER ONE -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -He breakfasted with Helen upon the first morning of the winter term, -inaptly named because winter does not begin until the term is over. They -had returned the evening before from a month's holiday in Cornwall and -now they were making themselves a little self-consciously at home in the -first-floor rooms that had been assigned to them in Lavery's. The room -in which they breakfasted overlooked the main quadrangle; the silver -coffee-pot on the table shimmered in the rays of the late summer sun. -</p> -<p> -Midway through the meal Burton, the porter at Lavery's, tapped at the -door and brought in the letters and the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>. -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "Hullo, that's luck!—I was thinking I should have to run -down the town to get my paper this morning." -</p> -<p> -Burton replied, with a hint of reproach in his voice: "No sir. It was -sent up from Harrington's as usual, sir. They always begin on the first -day of term, sir." -</p> -<p> -Speed nodded, curiously conscious of a thrill at the mention of the name -Harrington. Something made him suddenly nervous, so that he said, -boisterously, as if determined to show Burton at all costs that he was -not afraid of him: "Oh, by the way, Burton, you might shut that window a -little, will you?—there's a draught." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, sir," replied Burton, again with a hint of subdued reproachfulness -in his tone. While he was shutting the window, moving about very softly -and stealthily himself yet making a tremendous noise with everything -that had to be done with his large clumsy hands, it was necessary for -Speed and Helen to converse on casual and ordinary subjects. -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "I should think the ground's far too hard for rugger, -Helen." -</p> -<p> -She answered, somberly: "Yes, I daresay it is. It's really summer still, -isn't it?—And I'm so glad. I hate the winters." -</p> -<p> -"You hate the winters, eh?—Why's that?" -</p> -<p> -"It's so cold, and the pitches are all muddy, and there are horrid -locks-up after dark. Oh, I hate Millstead in winter-time." -</p> -<p> -He said, musingly: "We must have big fires when the cold weather comes, -anyway." -</p> -<p> -Then Burton departed, closing the door very delicately after him, and -the conversation languished. Speed glanced vaguely through his -correspondence. He was ever so slightly nervous. That month's honeymoon -in Cornwall had passed like a rapt and cloudless vision, but ever beyond -the horizon of it had been the thought of this return to Millstead for -the winter term. How the return to a place where he had been so happy -and of which he had such wonderful memories could have taken in his mind -the semblance of an ordeal, was a question that baffled him entirely. He -felt strangely and unaccountably shy of entering the Masters' -Common-Room again, of meeting Clanwell and Ransome and Pritchard and the -rest, of seeing once again all the well-known faces of the boys whose -summer vacations had been spent so much less eventfully than his. And -yet, as he sat at the breakfast-table and saw Helen opposite him, a -strange warming happiness surged up within him and made him long for the -initial ordeal to be over so that he could pass on to the pure and -wonderful life ahead, that life in which Helen and Millstead would reign -jointly and magnificently. Surely he could call himself blessed with the -most amazing good fortune, to be happily married at the age of -twenty-three and installed in just the position which, more than any -other in the world, he had always coveted!—Consciousness of his -supreme happiness made him quicken with the richest and most rapturous -enthusiasm; he would, he decided in a sudden blinding moment, make -Lavery's the finest of all the houses at Millstead; he would develop -alike the work and the games and the moral tone until the fame of -Lavery's spread far beyond its local boundaries and actually enhanced -the reputation of Millstead itself. Such achievements were not, he knew, -beyond the possibilities of an energetic housemaster, and he, young and -full of enthusiasms, would be a living fount of energy. All the proud -glory of life was before him, and in the fullness of that life there was -nothing that he might not do if he chose. -</p> -<p> -All that day he was at the mercy alternately of his tumultuous dreams of -the future and of a presaging nervousness of the imminent ordeals. In -the morning he was occupied chiefly with clerical work, but in the -afternoon, pleading a few errands in town, he took his bicycle out of -the shed and promised Helen that he would not be gone longer than an -hour or so. He felt a little sad to leave her, because he knew that with -the very least encouragement she would have offered to come with him. -Somehow, he would not have been pleased for her to do that; he felt -acutely self-conscious, vaguely yet miserably apprehensive of trials -that were in wait for him. In a few days, of course, everything would be -all right. -</p> -<p> -He did not cycle into the town, but along the winding Millstead lane -that led away from the houses and into the uplands around Parminters. -The sun was glorious and warm, and the trees of that deep and heavy -green that had not, so far, more than the faintest of autumnal tints in -it. Along the lane twisting into the cleft of Parminters, memories -assailed him at every yard. He had been so happy here—and -here—and here; here he had laughed loudly at something she had -said; here she had made one of her childish yet incomparably wise -remarks. Those old serene days, those splendid flaming afternoons of the -summer term, had been so sweet and exquisite and fragrantly memorable to -him that he could not forbear to wonder if anything could ever be so -lovely again. -</p> -<p> -Deep down beneath all the self-consciousness and apprehension and morbid -researching of the past, he knew that he was richly and abundantly -happy. He knew that she was still a child in his own mind; that life -with her was dream-like as had been the rapt anticipation of it; that -the dream, so far from marriage dispelling it, was enhanced by all the -kindling intimacies that swung them both, as it were, into the same -ethereal orbit. When he thought about it he came to the conclusion that -their marriage must be the most wonderful marriage in the world. She was -a child, a strange, winsome fairy-child, streaked with the most fitful -and sombre passion that he had ever known. Nobody, perhaps, would guess -that he and she were man and wife. The thought gratified his sense of -the singularity of what had happened. At the Cornish hotel where they -had stayed he had fancied that their identity as a honeymoon couple had -not been guessed at all; he had thought, with many an inward chuckle, -that people were supposing them to be mysteriously and romantically -unwedded. -</p> -<p> -Time passed so slowly on that first day of the winter term. He -rode back at the end of the afternoon with the wind behind him, -swinging him in through the main gateway where he could see -the windows of Lavery's pink in the rays of the setting sun. -Lavery's!—Lavery's!—Throughout the day he had found himself -repeating the name constantly, until the syllables lost all shred of -meaning. Lavery's!—Lav-er-izz.... The sounds boomed in his ears as -he entered the tiny drawing-room in which Helen was waiting for him with -the tea almost ready. Tea time!—In a few hours the great machine -of Millstead would have begun to pound its inexorable way. He felt, -listening to the chiming of the quarters, as if he were standing in the -engine-room of an ocean liner, watching the mighty shafts, now silent -and motionless, that would so soon begin their solemn crashing movement. -</p> -<p> -But that evening, about eleven o'clock, all his fears and shynesses were -over, and he felt the most deeply contented man in the world. A fire was -flickering a cheerful glow over the tiny drawing-room; Helen had -complained of chilliness so he had told Burton to light it. He was glad -now that this had been done, for it enabled him to grapple with his -dreams more comfortably. Helen sat in an armchair opposite to him on the -other side of the fire; she was leaning forward with her head on her -hands, so that the firelight shone wonderfully on her hair. He looked at -her from time to time, magnificently in love with her, and always amazed -that she belonged to him. -</p> -<p> -The long day of ordeals had passed by. He had dined that evening in the -Masters' Common-Room, and everybody there had pressed round him in a -chorus of eager congratulation. Afterwards he had toured his House, -introducing himself to those of the prefects whom he had not already -met, and strolling round the dormitories to shake hands informally with -the rank and file. Then he had interviewed new boys (there were nineteen -of them), and had distributed a few words of pastoral advice, concluding -with the strict injunction that if they made tea in the basements they -were on no account to throw the slops down the waste-pipes of the baths. -Lastly of all, he had put his head inside each of the dormitories, at -about half-past ten, to bestow a brisk but genial good-night. -</p> -<p> -So now, at eleven o'clock, rooted at last in everything that he most -loved in the world, he could pause to gloat over his happiness. Here, in -the snug firelit room, secret and rich with warm shadows; and there, -down the short corridor into the bleak emptiness of the classrooms, was -everything that his heart desired: Helen and Millstead: the two deities -that held passionate sway over him.—Eleven began to chime on the -school clock. The dormitories above were almost silent. She did not speak, -did not look up once from the redness of the fire; she was often like that, -silent with thoughts whose nature he could guess from the dark, tossing -passion that shook her sometimes when, in the midst of such silences, -she suddenly clung to him. She loved him more than ever he could have -imagined: that, more perhaps than anything else, had been the surprise -of that month in Cornwall. -</p> -<p> -"Eleven," he said, breaking the rapt silence. -</p> -<p> -She said, half humorously, half sadly: "Are you pleased with me?—Are -you satisfied?—Do I quite come up to expectations?" -</p> -<p> -He started, looked towards her, and laughed. The laugh disturbed the -silence of the room like the intrusion of something from millions of -miles away. He made a humorous pretence of puzzling it out, as if it -were a baffling problem, and said, finally, with mocking doubtfulness: -"Well, on the whole, I think you do." -</p> -<p> -"If I had been on trial for a month you'd still keep me, then?" she went -on, without moving her head out of her hands. -</p> -<p> -He answered, in the same vein as before: "If you could guarantee always -to remain up to sample, I daresay I would." -</p> -<p> -She raised her head and gave him such a look as, if he had not learned -to know it, would have made him think she was angry with him; it was -sharp with blade-like eagerness, as if she were piercing through his -attitude of jocularity. -</p> -<p> -Then, wondering why she did not smile when he was smiling, he put his -arm round her and drew her burning lips to his. "Bedtime," he said, -gaily, "for we've got to be up early in the morning." -</p> -<p> -Over about them as they clung together the spirit of Millstead, like a -watchful friend, came suddenly close and intimate, and to Speed, opening -his soul to it joyously, it appeared in the likeness of a golden-haired -child, shy yet sombrely passionate—a wraith of a child that was just -like Helen. Above all, they loved each other, these two, with a love -that surrounded and enveloped all things in a magic haze: they were the -perfect lovers. And over them the real corporeal Millstead brooded in -constant magnificent calm. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -Soon he was swallowed up in the joyous routine of term-time. He had -never imagined that a housemaster had such a large amount of work to do. -There were no early-morning forms during the winter term, however, and -as also it was a housemaster's privilege to breakfast in his own rooms, -Speed began the day with a happy three-quarters of an hour of -newspaper-scanning, envelope-tearing, and chatting with Helen. After -breakfast work began in earnest. Before term had lasted a week he -discovered that he had at least twice as many duties as in the preceding -term; the Head was certainly not intending to let him slack. There was -the drawing and music of the whole school to superintend, as well as the -choir and chapel-services which, as the once-famous Raggs became more -and more decrepit, fell into Speed's direction almost automatically. -Then also there were a large number of miscellaneous supervisory duties -which the housemasters shared between them, and one or two, at least, -which tradition decreed should be performed entirely by the junior -housemaster. The result of it all was that Speed was, if he had been in -the mood to desire a statutory eight hours' day, considerably -overworked. -</p> -<p> -It was fortunate that the work was what he loved. He plunged into it -with terrific zest. Lavery's was a large House, and Lavery himself had -judged all its institutions by the test of whether or not they conduced -to an economy in work for him. The result was an institution that -managed itself with rough-and-ready efficiency, that offered no glaring -scandal to the instrusive eye, yet was, in truth, honeycombed with -corruption of a mild sort, and completely under the sway of powerfully -vested interests. Against this and these Speed set himself out to do -final battle. A prudent housemaster, and certainly one who valued his -own personal comfort, would have postponed the contest, at any rate, -until he had become settled in his position. But Speed, emboldened by -the extraordinary success of his first term, and lured by his own dreams -of a Lavery's that should be the great House at Millstead, would not -delay. In his first week he found five of the prefects enjoying a -pleasant little smoking-party in the Senior prefect's study. They -explained to him that Lavery had never objected to their smoking, -provided they did it unostentatiously, and that Lavery never dreamed of -"barging in upon them" during their evening study-hours. Speed, stung by -their slightly insolent bearing, barked at them in his characteristic -staccato voice when annoyed: "It doesn't matter to me a bit what Lavery -used to let you do. You've got to obey me now, not Lavery. Prefects must -set the example to the others. I shall ask for an undertaking from all -of you that you don't smoke again during term-time. I'll give you till -to-morrow night to decide. Those who refuse will be degraded from -prefecture." -</p> -<p> -"You can't degrade without the Head's authority," said Smallwood, the -most insolent of the party. -</p> -<p> -Speed replied, colouring suddenly (for he realised that Smallwood had -spoken the truth): "I know my own business, thank you, Smallwood." -</p> -<p> -During the following twenty-four hours four out of the half-dozen -House-prefects gave the required undertaking. The other two, Smallwood -and a fellow named Biffin, refused, "on principle," as they said, -without explaining what exactly the qualification meant. Speed went -promptly to the Head and appealed for authority to degrade them. He -found that they had already poured their tale into the Head's receptive -ears, and that they had given the Head the impression that he (Speed) in -a tactless excess of reforming zeal, had been listening at keyholes and -prying around the study-doors at night. The Head, after listening to -Speed's indignant protest, replied, suavely: "I think, Mr. -Speed"—(Speed's relationship as son-in-law never tempted either of -them to any intimacy of address)—"I think you must—um, -yes—make some allowance for the—um—the natural -inclination of elder boys to—um—to be jealous of privileges. -Smoking is, of course, an—um, yes—an offence against school -rules, but Mr. Lavery was perhaps—um, yes, perhaps—wise in -turning the—um—the blind eye, when the offender was near the -top of the school and where the offence was not flagrant. You must -remember, Mr. Speed, that Smallwood is eighteen years of age, not so -very many years younger than you are yourself. Besides, he is—um, -yes, I think so—captain of the First Fifteen, is he not?—and -I—um—I assure you—his degradation through you would do -you an—um—an incalculable amount of harm in the school. -Don't make yourself unpopular, Mr. Speed. I will send a -note round the school, prefects—um, yes—included, -drawing—um—attention to the school rule against smoking. And -I will talk to Smallwood and the other boy—Biffin, isn't -he?—um, yes—privately. Privately, you see—a quiet -friendly conversation in—um—in private, can achieve -wonders." -</p> -<p> -Speed felt that he was being ever so gently snubbed. He left the Head's -study in a state of subdued fury, and his temper was not improved when -Helen seemed rather thoughtlessly inclined to take Smallwood's side. -"Don't get people into trouble, Kenneth," she pleaded. "I don't think -you ought to complain to father about them. After all, it isn't -frightfully wicked to smoke, is it? and I know they all used to do it in -Lavery's time. Why, I've seen them many a time when I've passed the -study-windows in the evenings." -</p> -<p> -He stared at her for a few seconds, half indignantly, half -incredulously: then, as if on sudden impulse, he smiled and placed his -hands on her shoulders and looked searchingly into her eyes. -"Soft-hearted little kid!" he exclaimed, laughing a slightly forced -laugh. "All the same, I don't think you quite understand my position, -dear." -</p> -<p> -"Tell me about it then," she said. -</p> -<p> -Perhaps instinct forewarned him that if he went into details, either his -indignation would break its bounds or else she would make some further -casual and infuriating comment. From both possibilities he shrank -nervously. He said, with an affectation of nonchalance: "Oh, never mind -about it, dear. It will all come right in the end. Don't you worry your -pretty head about it. Kiss me!" -</p> -<p> -She kissed him passionately. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -But Speed was still, in the main, happy, despite occasional worries. -There was a wonderful half-sad charm about those fading autumn -afternoons, each one more eager to dissolve into the twilight, each one -more thickly spread with the brown and yellow leaves. To Speed, who -remembered so well the summer term, the winter term seemed full of -poignancies and regrets. And yet surrounding it all, this strange -atmosphere which for want of a better designation must be called simply -Millstead, was no less apparent; it pervaded all those autumn days with -a subtle essence which made Speed feel that this life that he was living -would be impossible to forget, no matter what the world held in store -for him. He could never forget the clammy, earthy smell of the rugger -pitch after a match in rain; the steam rising from the heavy scrum; the -grey clouds rolling over the sky; the patter of rain-drops on the -corrugated-iron roof of the pavilion stand. Nor could anything efface -the memory of those grey twilights when the afternoon games were -finished; the crowded lamp-lit tuck-shop, a phantasy of chromatic -blazers and pots of jam and muddy knees; the basements, cloudy with -steam from the bathrooms; the bleak shivering corridors along which the -Juniors scampered and envied the cosy warmth of the studies which might -one day be their own. Even the lock-ups after dark held some strange and -secret comfort: Burton and his huge keys and his noisy banging of the -door were part of the curious witchery of it all. -</p> -<p> -And then at night-time when the sky was black as jet and the wind from -the fenlands howled round the tall chimney-stacks of Lavery's, Speed -could feel more than ever the bigness of this thing of which he had -become a part. The very days and nights took on characters and -individualities of their own; Speed could, if he had thought, have given -them all an identifying sound and colour: Monday, for instance, was -brown, deepening to crimson as night fell: he was always reminded of it -by the chord of E flat on the piano. That, of course, was perhaps no -more than half-imagined idiosyncrasy. But it was certain that the days -and nights were all shaped and conditioned by Millstead; and that they -were totally different from the days and nights that were elsewhere in -the world. On Sunday nights, for instance, Speed, observing a Lavery's -custom to which he saw no objection, read for an hour to the Junior -dormitory. The book was Bram Stoker's "Dracula." Speed had never heard -of the book until the Juniors informed him that Mr. Lavery had got -half-way through it during the previous term. After about three -successive readings Speed decided that the book was too horrible to be -read to Juniors just before bedtime, and accordingly refused to go on -with it. "I shall put it in the House library," he said, "so if any of -you wish to finish it you can do so in the daytime. And now we'll try -something else. Can anybody suggest anything?" Somebody mentioned -Stephen Leacock, and in future, Sunday evenings in the Junior dormitory -at Lavery's were punctuated by roars of laughter. All the same, the -sudden curtailment of <i>Dracula</i> was, for a long while, a sore point -with the Juniors. -</p> -<p> -On the two half-holidays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, Speed had three or -four of his House in to tea, taking them in rotation. This was a custom -which Lavery, seeing in it no more than an unnecessary increase in his -duties and obligations, had allowed to fall into disuse. Nor were the -majority of the boys keen on Speed's resumption of what had been, more -often than not, an irksome social infliction. They were, however, -gratified by the evident interest that he took in them, and most of -them, when they thankfully escaped from the ordeal back to their fellows -in the Common-Room, admitted that he was "quite a decent sort of chap." -Speed believed in the personal relationship between each boy and his -housemaster with an almost fanatical zeal. He found out what each boy -was interested in, and, without prying into anybody's private affairs, -contrived to establish himself as a personal factor in the life of the -House and not as a vague and slatternly deity such as Lavery had been. -Four o'clock therefore, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, saw Speed's tiny -drawing-room littered with cakes and toasted scones, and populated by -three or four nervous youngsters trying desperately to respond to -Speed's geniality and to balance cups and saucers and plates on their -knees without upsetting anything. -</p> -<p> -It was part of Speed's dream of the ideal housemaster and his ideal -House that the housemaster's wife should fulfil a certain difficult and -scrupulously exact function in the scheme of things. She must not, of -course, attempt any motherly intimacies, or call people by their -Christian names, or do anything else that was silly or effusive; yet, on -the other hand, there was a sense in which her relationship with the -boys, especially the Juniors, might be less formal than her husband's. -And, somehow, Speed was forced to admit that Helen did not achieve this -extraordinarily delicate equipoise. She was, he came to the conclusion, -too young for it to be possible. When she grew older, no doubt she -would, in that particular respect, improve, but for the present she was, -perhaps naturally, nervous in the presence of the elder boys and apt to -treat the Juniors as if they were babies. Gradually she formed the habit -of going over to the Head's house for tea whenever Speed entertained the -boys in his room; it was an arrangement which, accomplished silently and -without definition. Speed felt to be rather a wise one. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -Clare Harrington had left Millstead. One breakfast time a letter came -from her with the Paris postmark. Out of the envelope tumbled a number -of small snapshots; Speed scanned the letter through and remarked, -summing up its contents roughly for Helen's benefit: "Oh, Clare's in -France. Been having rather a good time, I should imagine—touring -about, you know." -</p> -<p> -Helen looked up suddenly. -</p> -<p> -"I didn't know she wrote to <i>you</i>," she said. -</p> -<p> -Speed answered, casually: "She doesn't, as a rule. But she knows I'm -interested in architecture—I expect that's why she sent me all these -snaps. There's one here of ..." he picked them up and glanced through -them ... "of Chartres Cathedral ... the belfry at Bruges ... some street -in Rouen.... They're rather good—have a look at them!" -</p> -<p> -She examined them at first suspiciously, then with critical intensity. -And finally she handed them back to him without remark. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWO -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -One dark dusk in November that was full of wind and fine rain Speed -stood up at his drawing-room window to pull down the blind. But before -doing so he gazed out at the dreary twilight and saw the bare trees -black and terrible beyond the quadrangle and the winking lights of -Milner's across the way. He had seen all of it so many times before, had -lived amongst it, so it now seemed to him, for ages; yet to-night there -was something in it that he had never seen before: a sort of sadness -that was abroad in the world. He heard the wind screaming through the -sodden trees and the branches creaking, the rain drops splashing on the -ivy underneath the window: it seemed to him that Millstead was full that -night of beautiful sorrow, and that it came over the dark quadrangle to -him with open arms, drenching all Lavery's in wild and forlorn pathos. -</p> -<p> -He let the blind fall gently in front of his rapt eyes while the yellow -lamplight took on a richer, serener tinge. Those few weeks of occupation -had made the room quite different; its walls were now crowded with -prints and etchings; there was a sideboard, dull-glowing and huge for -the size of the room, on which silver and pewter and cut glass glinted -in tranquillity. Across one corner a baby-grand piano sprawled its sleek -body like a drowsily basking sea-lion, and opposite, in the wall at -right angles to the window, a large fire lulled itself into red -contentment with flames that had hardly breath for an instant's flicker. -But Speed left the window and stirred the coals into yellow riot that -lit his face with tingling, delicious half-tones. In the firelight he -seemed very tall and young-looking, with dark-brown, straggling hair, -brown, eager eyes that were almost black, and a queer, sad-lipped mouth -that looked for the present as if it would laugh and cry in the same -way. A leather-seated stool stood by the fireside, and he dragged it in -front of the open flames and sat with his chin resting solemnly on his -slim, long-fingered hands. -</p> -<p> -It was a Wednesday and Helen had gone with her mother to visit some -friends in the town and would not be back until, perhaps, dinner-time. -It was almost four o'clock, and that hour, or at any rate, a few seconds -or minutes afterwards, three youngsters would be coming to tea. Their -names were Felling, Fyfield, and Graham. All were Juniors, as it -happened, and they would be frightfully nervous, and assuredly would not -know when to depart. -</p> -<p> -Speed, liking them well enough, but feeling morbid for some reason or -other, pictured them plastering their hair down and scrambling into -their Sunday jackets in readiness for the ordeal. Poor little kids! he -thought, and he almost longed to rush into the cold dormitories where -they were preparing themselves and say: "Look here, Felling, Fyfield and -Graham—you needn't come to tea with me this afternoon—you're -excused!" -</p> -<p> -The hour of four boomed into the wind and rain outside. Speed looked -round to see if Burton had set the correct number of cups, saucers and -plates, and had obtained a sufficient quantity of cake and fancy pastry -from the tuck-shop. After all, he ought to offer them some compensation -for having to come to tea with him. -</p> -<p> -Tap at the door. "Come in.... Ah, that you, Felling ... and you, -Graham.... I expect Fyfield will be here in a minute.... Sit down, will -you? ... Take that easy-chair, Felling.... Isn't it depressing -weather? ... I suppose you saw the game against Oversham? That last try of -Marshall's was a particularly fine one, I thought.... Come in.... Ah, -here you are, Fyfield: now we can get busy with the tea, can't we? ... -How's the Junior Debating Society going, Fyfield?" (Fyfield was -secretary of it.) "I must come round to one of your meetings, if you'll -promise to do exactly as you would if I weren't there.... Come in.... -You might bring me some more hot water, Burton.... By the way, Graham, -congratulations on last Saturday's match: I didn't see it, but I'm told -you did rather well." -</p> -<p> -And so on. They were nice boys, all three of them, but they were -nervous. They answered in monosyllables or else embarked upon tortuous -sentences which became finally embedded in meringues and chocolate -<i>éclairs</i>. Felling, in particular, was overawed, for he was a new boy -that term and had only just emerged from six weeks in the sanatorium -with whooping-cough. Virtually, this was his first week at school. -</p> -<p> -In the midst of the ponderously jocular, artificially sustained -conversation a knock came on the door. Speed shouted out "Come in," as -usual. The door opened and somebody came in. Speed could not see who it -was. He thought it must be a boy and turned back the red lampshade so -that the rays, nakedly yellow, glanced upwards. Then he saw. -</p> -<p> -Clare! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -She was dressed in a long flowing mackintosh which had something in it -reminiscent still of the swirl of wind and rain. She came forward very -simply, held out her hand to Speed, and said: "How are you, Mr. Speed? I -thought perhaps I should find Helen in." -</p> -<p> -He said, overmastering his astonishment: "Helen's out somewhere with -Mrs. Ervine.... I'm quite well. How—how are you?" -</p> -<p> -"Quite as well as you are," she said, laughing. "Tell Helen I'll call -round some other time, then, will you?—I mustn't interrupt your -tea-party." -</p> -<p> -That made him say: "Indeed you're not doing that at all. Won't you stay -and have a cup of tea? Surely you won't go back into the rain so soon! -Let me introduce you—this is Felling ... Miss Harrington ... and this -is Fyfield ... and Graham...." -</p> -<p> -What on earth had made him do that? He wondered, as he saw the boys -shaking hands with her so stiffly and nervously; what was possessing -him? Yet, accepting his invitation calmly and decisively, she sat down -in the midst of them as soon as she had taken off her wet mackintosh, -and appeared perfectly comfortable and at home. Speed busied himself in -obtaining a cup of tea for her, and by the time he had at last succeeded -he heard her talking in the most amazing way to Graham, and, which was -more, Graham was answering her as if they had known each other for -weeks. She had somehow found out that Graham's home was in Perth, and -they were indulging in an eager, if rather vacuous, exchange of -"Do—you—know's." Then quite suddenly she was managing to -include Fyfield in the conversation, and in a little while after that -Felling demonstrated both his present cordiality and his former -absent-mindedness by calling her "Mrs. Speed." She said, with perfect -calmness and without so much as the faintest suggestion in her voice of -any but the mere literal meaning of her words: "I'm not Mrs. Speed; I'm -Miss Harrington." -</p> -<p> -Speed had hardly anything to do with the talk at all. He kept supplying -the participators with fuel in the way of cakes and <i>éclairs</i>, but he -was content to leave the rest of the management in Clare's hands. She -paid little attention to him, reserving most of her conversation for the -three boys. The chatter developed into a gossip that was easy, yet -perfectly respectful; Speed, putting in his word or two occasionally, -was astonished at the miracle that was being performed under his eyes. -Who could have believed that Felling, Fyfield and Graham could ever be -induced to talk like that in their housemaster's drawing-room? Of -course, a man couldn't do it at all, he thought, in self-defence: it was -a woman's miracle entirely. -</p> -<p> -The school-clock began the chime of five, and five was the hour when it -was generally considered that housemasterly teas were due to finish. -Speed waited till ten minutes past and then interjected during a pause -In the conversation: "Well, I'm sorry you can't stay any longer...." -</p> -<p> -The three boys rose, thankful for the hint although the affair had -turned out to be not quite such an ordeal as they had expected. After -hand-shaking with Clare they backed awkwardly out of the room followed -by Speed's brisk "Good-night." -</p> -<p> -When they had gone Clare cried, laughing: "Oh, fancy getting rid of them -like that, Mr. Speed!—I should be insulted if you tried it on with -me." -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "It's the best way with boys, Miss Harrington. They don't -like to say they must go themselves, and they'd feel hurt if you told -them to go outright. Really they're immensely grateful for a plain -hint." -</p> -<p> -Now that he was alone in the room with her he began to feel nervous in a -very peculiar and exciting way; as if something unimaginably strange -were surely going to happen. Outside, the wind and rain seemed suddenly -to grow loud, louder, terrifically loud; a strong whiff of air came down -the chimney and blew smoke into the room. All around, everywhere, there -were noises, clumping of feet on the floor above, chatter and shouting -in the corridors, the distant jangle of pianos in the practice-rooms; -and yet, in a deep significant sense, it was as if he and Clare were -quite alone amidst the wind and rain. He poked the fire with a gesture -that was almost irritable; the flames prodded into the red-tinted gloom -and revealed Clare perfectly serene and imperturbable. Evidently nothing -was going to happen at all. He looked at her with keen quickness, -thinking amazedly: And, by the way, what <i>could</i> have happened? -</p> -<p> -"How is Helen?" she asked. -</p> -<p> -He answered: "Oh, she's quite well. Very well, in fact." -</p> -<p> -"And I suppose you are, also." -</p> -<p> -"I look it, don't I?" -</p> -<p> -She said, after a pause: "And quite happy, of course." -</p> -<p> -He started, kicked the fender with a clatter that, for the moment, -frightened him, and exclaimed: "Happy! Did you mean am <i>I</i> happy?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -He did not answer immediately. He gave the question careful and -scrupulous weighing-up. He thought deliberately and calculatingly of -Helen, pictured her in his mind, saw her sitting opposite to him in the -chair where Felling had sat, saw her and her hair lit with the glow of -the fire, her blue eyes sparkling; then, for a while, he listened to -her, heard her rich, sombre whisper piercing the gloom; lastly, as if -sight and hearing were not evidence enough, he brought her close to him, -so that his hands could touch her. He said then, with deep certainty: -"Yes, I'm happy." -</p> -<p> -"That's fine," she replied. "Now tell me how you're getting on with -Lavery's?" -</p> -<p> -He chatted to her for a while about the House, communicating to her -something of his enthusiasm but not touching upon any of his -difficulties. Then he asked her what she had been doing in France. She -replied: "Combining business with pleasure." -</p> -<p> -"How?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, you see, first of all I bought back from my father's publishers -all transcription rights. (They'd never used them themselves). Then, -with the help of a French friend, I translated one or two of the -Helping-Hand-Books into French and placed them with a Paris agent. -Business you see. He disposed of them fairly, advantageously, and on -part of the proceeds I treated myself to a holiday. I had an excellent -time. Now I've come back to Millstead to translate a few more of my -father's books." -</p> -<p> -"But you're continuing to run the shop, I suppose?" -</p> -<p> -"I've brought over my French friend to do that for me. She's a clever -girl with plenty of brains and no money. She speaks English perfectly. -In the daytime she'll do most of the shop-work for me and she'll always -be handy to help me with translations. You must meet her—you'll find -her most outrageously un-English." -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"I mean that she's not sentimental." -</p> -<p> -By the time that he had digested that a tap came at the door. -</p> -<p> -"That's Helen!" said Speed, joyously, recognising the quiet double rap. -He felt delightfully eager to see the meeting of the two friends. Helen -entered. Clare rose. Speed cried, like an excited youngster: "Helen, -we've got a visitor. Who do you think it is?" -</p> -<p> -Helen replied, puzzled: "I don't know. Tell me." -</p> -<p> -"Clare!" he cried, with boisterous enthusiasm. "It's Clare!" -</p> -<p> -Then he remembered that he had never called her Clare before; always it -had been Miss Harrington. And yet the name had come so easily and -effortlessly to his tongue! -</p> -<p> -Helen gasped: "Clare! Is it you, Clare?" -</p> -<p> -And Clare advanced through the shadows and kissed Helen very simply and -quietly. Again Speed felt that strange, presaging emotion of something -about to happen, of some train being laid for the future. The rain was -now a torrent, and the wind a great gale shrieking across the fenlands. -</p> -<p> -Helen said: "I'm drenched with rain—let me take my coat off." After a -short pause she added: "Why didn't you let me know you were coming, -Clare? If you had I could have stayed in for you." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Speed was always inclined to drop out of conversations that were -proceeding well enough without him. In a few moments Helen and Clare -were chatting together exactly as if he had not been present. He did not -mind; he was rather glad, in fact, because it relieved him from the task -of mastering his nervousness. He felt too, what he always felt when -Helen was talking to another woman; a feeling that women as a sex were -hostile to men, and that when they were together there was a sort of -secret freemasonry between them which enforced a rigid and almost -contemptuous attitude towards the other sex. Nothing in Clare's manner -encouraged this belief, but Helen's side of the conversation was a -distinct suggestion of it. Not that anything said or discussed was -inimical to him; merely that whenever the conversation came near to a -point at which he might naturally have begun to take part in it, Helen -seemed somehow to get hold of it by the neck and pull it out of his -reach. And Clare was quite impassive, allowing Helen to do just what she -liked. These were Speed's perhaps exaggerated impressions as he sat very -uncomfortably in the armchair, almost frightened to move lest movement -on his part might be wrongly interpreted as irritation, fear, or -boredom. When he felt uncomfortable his discomfort was always added to -by a usually groundless fear that other people were noticing it and -speculating as to its reason. -</p> -<p> -At six the bell rang for school tea in the dining-hall, and this was his -week to superintend that function. Most mercifully then he was permitted -to leave the red-glowing drawing-room and scamper across the rain-swept -quadrangle. "Sorry I must leave you," he said, hastily, rising from his -chair. Helen said, as if her confirmation were essential before his -words could be believed: "It's his week for reading grace, you know." -</p> -<p> -"And after that I've got some youngsters with piano-lessons," he said, -snatching up his gown and, in his nervousness, putting it on wrong side -out. "So I'll say good-bye, Miss Harrington." -</p> -<p> -He shook hands with her and escaped into the cold rain. It was over a -hundred yards to the dining-hall, and with the rain slanting down in -torrential gusts he was almost drenched during the few seconds' run. -Somehow, the bare, bleak dining-hall, draughty and fireless and lit with -flaring gas-jets, seemed to him exhilaratingly cheerful as he gazed down -upon it from the Master's rostrum at the end. He leaned his arms over -the edge of the lectern, watching the boys as they streamed in noisily, -with muddy boots and turned-up collars and wet ruddy cheeks. The long -tables, loaded with smeared jam-pots and towers of bread-slices and tins -of fruit jaggedly opened, seemed, in their teeming, careless ugliness, -immensely real and joyous: there was a simplicity too, an almost -mathematical simplicity, in the photographs of all the rugger fifteens -and cricket and hockey elevens that adorned the green-distempered walls. -The photographs were complete for the last thirty-eight years; therefore -there would be four hundred and eighteen plus four hundred and eighteen -plus five hundred and seventy separate faces upon the walls. Total: one -thousand four hundred and six.... Speed never thought of it except when -he stood on the rostrum waiting to read grace, and as he was not good at -mental arithmetic he always had a misgiving that he had calculated -wrongly, and so would go over it again multiplying with his brain while -his eyes were on the clock. And this evening his mind, once enslaved by -the numerical fascination of the photographs, obtained no release until -a stamping of feet at the far end of the hall awakened him to the -realisation that it was time he said grace. He had been dreaming. Silly -of him to stand there on the rostrum openly and obviously dreaming -before the eyes of all Millstead! He blushed slightly, smiled more -slightly still, and gave the knob of the hand-bell a vigorous punch. -Clatter of forms and shuffling of feet as all Millstead rose.... "For -these and all His mercies the Lord's name we praise...." About the -utterance of the word "mercies," conversation, prohibited before grace, -began to murmur from one end of the room to the other; the final -"praise," hardly audible even to Speed himself, was engulfed in a mighty -swelling of hundreds of unleashed voices, clumping of feet, clattering -of forms, banging of plates, shrill appeals for one thing and another, -and general pandemonium amidst which, Speed, picking his way amongst the -groups of servants, made his escape. -</p> -<p> -How strange was Millstead to-night, he thought, as he made his way along -the covered cloisters to the music-rooms. The rain had slackened -somewhat, but the wind was still high and shrieking; the floor of the -cloisters, wet from hundreds of muddy boots, shone greasily in the rays -of the wind-blown lamps. Over the darkness of the quadrangle he could -see Lavery's rising like a tall cliff at the other side of an ocean; and -the dull red square that was the window of his own drawing-room. Had -Clare gone?—Clare! It was unfortunate, perhaps, that he had called -her Clare in his excitement; unfortunate because she might think he had -done it deliberately with a view to deepening the nature of their -friendship. That was his only reason for thinking it unfortunate. -</p> -<p> -Down in the dark vaults beneath the Big Hall, wherein the piano-rooms -were situated, he found Porritt Secundus waiting for him. Porritt was in -Lavery's, and therefore Speed was more than ordinarily interested in -him. -</p> -<p> -"Do you have to miss your tea in order to have a lesson at this hour?" -Speed asked, putting his hand in a friendly way on Porritt's shoulder, -as he guided him through the gloomy corridor into the single room where -a small light was showing. -</p> -<p> -Porritt replied: "I didn't to-day, sir. Smallwood asked me to tea with -him." -</p> -<p> -Speed's hand dropped from Porritt's shoulder as if it had been shot -away. His imagination, fanned into sudden perceptivity, detected in the -boy's voice a touch of—of what? Impertinence? Hardly, and yet surely -a boy could be impertinent without saying anything that was in itself -impertinent.... Porritt had been to tea with Smallwood. And Smallwood -was Speed's inveterate enemy, as the latter well knew. Was it possible -that Smallwood was adopting a methodical policy of setting the Juniors -against him? Possibilities invaded Speed's mind in a scorching torrent. -Moments afterwards, when he had regained composure, it occurred to him -that it was the habit of prefects to invite their Juniors to tea -occasionally, and that it was perfectly natural that Porritt, so -recently the guest of the Olympian Smallwood, should be eager to tell -people about it. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -That night, sitting by the fire before bedtime, Helen said: "Was Clare -here a long time before I came in?" -</p> -<p> -Speed answered: "Not very long. She came while I was having three -Juniors to tea, and they stayed until after five.... After they'd gone -she told me about her holiday in France." -</p> -<p> -"She's been bargaining over her father's books in Paris, so she says." -</p> -<p> -"Well, not exactly that. You see, Mr. Harrington's publishers never -arranged for his books to be translated, so she bought the rights off -them so as to be able to arrange it herself." -</p> -<p> -"I think it's rather mean to go haggling about that sort of thing after -the man's dead, don't you? After all, if he'd wanted them to be -translated, surely he'd have done it himself while he was alive—don't -you think so? Clare seems to be out to make as much money as she can -without any thought about what would have been her father's wishes." -</p> -<p> -"I confess," replied Speed, slowly, "that it never struck me in that -light. Harrington had about as much business in him as a two-year-old, -and if he let himself be swindled right and left, surely that's no -reason why his daughter should continue in the same way. Besides, she -hasn't much money and it couldn't have been her father's wish that she -should neglect chances of getting some." -</p> -<p> -"She has the shop." -</p> -<p> -"It can't be very profitable." -</p> -<p> -"I daresay it won't allow her to take holidays abroad, but that's not to -say it won't give her a decent living." -</p> -<p> -"Of course," said Speed, mildly, "I really don't know anything about her -private affairs. You may be right in everything you say.... It's nearly -eleven. Shall we go to bed?" -</p> -<p> -"Soon," she said, broodingly, gazing into the fire. She was silent for a -moment and then said, slowly and deliberately: "Kenneth." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Helen?" -</p> -<p> -"Do you know—I—I—I don't think I—I quite like -Clare—as much as I used to." -</p> -<p> -"You don't, Helen? Why not?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know why not. But it's true.... She—she makes me feel -frightened—somehow. I hope she doesn't come here often. I—I -don't think I shall ask her to. Do you—do you mind?" -</p> -<p> -"Mind, Helen? Why should I mind? If she frightens you she certainly -shan't come again." He added, with a fierceness which, somehow, did not -strike him as absurd: "I won't let her. Helen—<i>dear</i> Helen, -you're unhappy about something—tell me all about it!" -</p> -<p> -She cried vehemently: -"Nothing—nothing—nothing!—Kenneth, I want to learn -things—will you teach me?—I'm a ridiculously ignorant -person, Kenneth, and some day I shall make you feel ashamed of me if I -don't learn a few things more. <i>Will</i> you teach me?" -</p> -<p> -"My darling. I'll teach you everything in the world. What shall we begin -with?" -</p> -<p> -"Geography. I was looking through some of the exercise-books you had to -mark. Do you know, I don't know anything about exports and imports?" -</p> -<p> -"Neither did I until I had them to teach." -</p> -<p> -"And you'll teach me?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. I'll teach you anything you want to learn. But I don't think we'll -have our first lesson until to-morrow. Bedtime now, Helen." -</p> -<p> -She flung her arms round his neck passionately, offered her lips to -his almost with abandonment, and cried, in the low, thrilling -voice that seemed so full of unspoken dreads and secrecies: "Oh, -Kenneth—Kenneth—you <i>do</i> love me, don't you? You aren't -tired of me? You aren't even a little bit dissatisfied, are you?" -</p> -<p> -He took her in his arms and kissed her more passionately than he had -ever done before. It seemed to him then that he did love her, more -deeply than anybody had loved anybody else since the world began, and -that, so far from his being the least bit dissatisfied with her, she was -still guiding him into fresh avenues of unexplored delight. She was the -loveliest and most delicate thing in the world. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -The great event of the winter term was the concert in aid of the local -hospitals. It had taken place so many years in succession that it had -become institutional and thoroughly enmeshed in Millstead tradition. It -was held during the last week of the term in the Big Hall; the boys paid -half-a-crown each for admission (the sum was included in their terminal -bills), and outsiders, for whom there was a limited amount of -accommodation, five shillings. The sum was artfully designed to exclude -shop assistants and such-like from a function which was intended to be, -in the strictest sense, exclusive. Millstead, on this solemn annual -occasion, arrayed itself for its own pleasure and satisfaction; took a -look at itself, so to say, in order to reassure itself that another year -of social perturbation had mercifully left it entire. And by Millstead -is meant, in the first instance, the School. The Masters, for once, -discarded their gowns and mortar-boards and appeared in resplendent -evening-suits which, in some cases, were not used at all during the rest -of the year. Masters, retired and of immense age, rumbled up to the main -gateway in funereal four-wheelers and tottered to their seats beneath -the curious eyes of an age that knew them not. The wives of non-resident -Masters, like deep-sea fishes that rarely come to the surface, blinked -their pleased astonishment at finding everything, apparently, different -from what they had been led to expect. And certain half-mythical -inhabitants of the neighbourhood, doctors and colonels and captains and -landed gentry, parked themselves in the few front rows like curious -social specimens on exhibition. In every way the winter term concert at -Millstead was a great affair, rivalling in splendour even the -concentrated festivities of Speech Day. -</p> -<p> -Speed, in virtue of his position as music-master, found himself involved -in the scurry and turmoil of preparation. This concert, he decided, with -his customary enthusiasm, should be the best one that Millstead had had -for many a year. He would have introduced into it all sorts of -innovations had he not found, very soon after he began to try, that -mysteriously rigid traditions stood in the way. He was compelled, for -instance, to open with the Millstead School Song. Now the Millstead -School Song had been likened by a witty though irreverent Master to the -funeral-march of a smoked haddock. It began with a ferocious yell of -"<i>Haec olim revocare</i>" and continued through yards of uneuphonious -Latin into a remorseless <i>clump-clump</i> of a chorus. Speed believed -that, even supposing the words were sacrosanct, that ought to be no -reason for the tune to be so, and suggested to the Head that some -reputable modern composer should be commissioned to write one. The Head, -of course, would not agree. "The tune, Mr. Speed, has—um, -yes—associations. As a newcomer you cannot be expected to feel -them, but, believe me, they do—um, yes—they do most -certainly exist. An old foundation, Mr. Speed, and if you take away from -us our—um—traditions, then you—um—take away that -which not enriches you and makes us, urn, yes—poor indeed." And, -with a glint of satisfaction at having made use of a quotation rather -aptly, the Head indicated that Speed must not depart from the recognised -routine. -</p> -<p> -Even without innovations, however, the concert demanded a great deal of -practising and rehearsal, and in this Speed had the rather hazy -co-operation of Raggs, the visiting organist. He it was who told Speed -exactly what items must, on no account, be omitted; and who further -informed him of items which must on no account be included; these latter -consisted chiefly of things which Speed suggested himself. It was -finally arranged, however, and the programme submitted to and passed by -the Head: there was to be a pianoforte solo, a trio for piano, violin -and 'cello, a good, resounding song by the choir, a quartet singing -Christmas carols, and one or two "suitable" songs from operas. The -performers, where possible, were to be boys of the school, but there -were precedents for drawing on the services of outsiders when necessary. -Thus when it was found that the school orchestra lacked first violins, -Raggs gave Speed the names of several ladies and gentlemen in the town -who had on former occasions lent their services in this capacity. And -among these names was that of Miss Clare Harrington. -</p> -<p> -Speed, making his preparations about the middle of November, was in a -dilemma with this list of names. He knew that, for some reason or other, -Helen did not care for Clare's company, and that if Clare were to take -part, not only in the concert itself, but in all the preceding -rehearsals, she would be brought almost inevitably into frequent contact -with Helen. He thought also that if he canvassed all the other people -first, Clare might, if she came to hear of it, think that he had treated -her spitefully. In the end he solved the difficulty by throwing the -burden of selection on to Raggs and undertaking in exchange some vastly -more onerous task that Raggs was anxious to get rid of. A few days later -Raggs accosted Speed in the cloisters and said: "I've got you a few -first violins. Here's their names and addresses on this card. They'll -turn up to the next rehearsal if you'll send them word." -</p> -<p> -When Raggs had shambled away. Speed looted curiously at the card which -he had pushed into his hand. Scanning down the list, scribbled in Raggs' -most illegible pencilled script, he found himself suddenly conscious of -pleasure, slight yet strangely distinct; something that made him go on -his way whistling a tune. Clare's name was on the list. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -Those crowded winter nights of rehearsals for the concert were full of -incident for Speed. As soon as the school had finished preparation in -the Big Hall, the piano was uncovered and pushed into the middle of the -platform; the violinists and 'cellists began to tune up; the choir -assembled with much noise and a disposition to regard rehearsals as a -boisterous form of entertainment; lastly, the visitors from the town -appeared, adapting themselves condescendingly to the rollicking -atmosphere. -</p> -<p> -Speed discovered Clare to be a rather good violinist. She played quietly -and accurately, with an absence (rare in good violinists) of superfluous -emotion. Once she said to Speed, referring to one of the other imported -violinists: "Listen! This Mozart's only a decorative frieze, and that -man's playing it as if it were the whole gateway to the temple of Eros." -Speed, who liked architectural similes himself, nodded appreciatively. -Clare went on: "I always want to laugh at emotion in the wrong place. -Violinists who are too fond of the mute, for instance." Speed said, -laughing: "Yes, and organists who are too fond of the <i>vox humana</i>." -To which Clare added: "And don't forget to mention the audiences that are -too fond of both. It's their fault principally." -</p> -<p> -At ten o'clock, when rehearsals were over, Speed accompanied Clare home -to the shop in High Street. There was something in those walks which -crept over him like a slow fascination, so that after the first few -occasions he found himself sitting at the piano during the rehearsal -with everything in his mind subordinate to the tingling anticipation of -the stroll afterwards. When they left the Big Hall and descended the -steps into the cool dusk of the cloisters, his spirits rose as with -wine; and when from the cloisters they turned into the crisp-cold night, -crunching softly over the frosted quadrangle and shivering joyously in -the first keen lash of the wind, he could have scampered for sheer -happiness like a schoolboy granted an unexpected holiday. Sometimes the -moon was white on roofs and roadways; sometimes the sky was densely -black; sometimes it was raining and Millstead High Street was no more -than a vista of pavements with the yellow lamplight shining on the pools -in them: once, at least, it was snowing soft, dancing flakes that -covered the ground inches deep as they walked. But whatever the world -was like on those evenings on which Speed accompanied Clare, one thing -was common to them all: an atmosphere of robust companionship, -impervious to all things else. The gales that romped and frolicked over -the fenlands were no more vigorous and coldly sweet than something that -romped and frolicked in Speed's inmost soul. -</p> -<p> -Once they were discussing the things that they hated most of all. "I -hate myself more than anything else—sometimes," said Speed. -</p> -<p> -Clare said: "And I hate people who think that a thing's bound to be -sordid because it's real: people who think a thing's beautiful merely -because it's hazy and doesn't mean anything. I'm afraid I hate -Mendelssohn." -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "Mendelssohn? Why, that was what Helen used to be keen on, -wasn't it?—last term, don't you remember?" -</p> -<p> -A curious silence supervened. -</p> -<p> -Clare said, after a pause: "Yes, I believe it was." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -Helen's attitude towards Clare at this time was strangely at variance -with her former one. As soon as she learned that Clare was playing in -the concert she wrote to her and told her always to come into Lavery's -before the rehearsal began. "It will be nice seeing you so often, -Clare," she wrote, "and you needn't worry about getting back in the -evenings because Kenneth will always see you home." -</p> -<p> -Speed said, when he heard of Helen's invitation: "But I thought you -didn't like Clare, Helen?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I was silly," she answered. "I do like her, really. And besides, we -must be hospitable. You'll see her back in the evenings, won't you?" -</p> -<p> -"I daresay I <i>can</i> do," he said. -</p> -<p> -Then, suddenly laughing aloud, he caught her into his arms and kissed -her. "I'm so glad it's all right again, Helen. I don't like my little -Helen to throw away her old friends. It isn't like her. You see how -happy we shall all be, now that we're friendly again with Clare." -</p> -<p> -"I know," she said. -</p> -<p> -"I believe you are the most lovable and loving little girl in the world -except—" he frowned at her playfully—"when the devil persuades -you that you don't like people. Some day he'll persuade you that you don't -like me." -</p> -<p> -"He won't," she said. -</p> -<p> -"I hope he won't." -</p> -<p> -She seemed to him then more than ever a child, a child whose winsomeness -was alloyed with quaint and baffling caprice. He loved her, too, very -gladly and affectionately; and he knew then, quite clearly because the -phase was past that her announced dislike of Clare had made him love her -not quite so much. But now all was happy and unruffled again, so what -did it matter? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THREE -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -Smallwood was one of a type more commonly found at a university than at -a public school; in fact it was due to his decision not to go to the -former that he had stayed so long at Millstead. He was nineteen years -old, and when he left he would enter his father's office in the City. -The disciplinary problems of dealing with him and others of his type -bristled with awkwardness, especially for a Master so young as Speed; -the difficulty was enhanced by the fact that Smallwood, having stayed at -Millstead long enough to achieve all athletic distinctions merely by -inevitability, was a power in the school of considerable magnitude. -Personally, he was popular; he was in no sense a bully; he was a kindly -and certainly not too strict prefect; his disposition was friendly and -easy-going. But for the unfortunate clash at the beginning of the term -Speed might have found in him a powerful ally instead of a sinister -enemy. One quality Smallwood possessed above all others—vanity; and -Speed, having affronted that vanity, could count on a more virulent -enmity than Smallwood's lackadaisical temperament was ordinarily capable -of. -</p> -<p> -The error lay, of course, in the system which allowed Smallwood to stay -at Millstead so long. Smallwood at nineteen was distinctly and quite -naturally a man, not a boy; and whatever in him seemed unnatural was -forced on him by the Millstead atmosphere. There was nothing at all -surprising in his study-walls being covered with photographs of women -and amorous prints obtained from French magazines. Nor was it surprising -that he was that very usual combination—the athlete and the dandy, -that his bathroom was a boudoir of pastes and oils and cosmetics, and that, -with his natural good looks, he should have the reputation of being a -lady-killer. Compelled by the restraints of Millstead life to a -resignation of this branch of his activities during term-time, he found -partial solace in winking at the less unattractive of the -school-servants (who, it was reported, were chosen by the matron on the -score of ugliness), and in relating to his friends lurid stories of his -adventures in London during the vacations. He had had, for a -nineteen-year-old, the most amazing experiences, and sometimes the more -innocuous of these percolated, by heaven knows what devious channels, to -the amused ears of the Masters' Common-Room. The Masters as a whole, it -should be noted, liked Smallwood, because, with a little flattery and -smoothing-down, they could always cajole him into agreement with them. -Titivate his vanity and he was Samson shorn of his locks. -</p> -<p> -Now the masters, for various reasons, did not like Speed so much in his -second term as they had done in his first. Like all bodies of averagely -tolerant men they tended to be kindly to newcomers, and Speed, young, -quiet, modest, and rather attractively nervous, had won more of their -hearts than some of them afterwards cared to remember. The fact that his -father was a titled man and that Speed never talked about it, was bound -to impress a group of men who, by the unalterable circumstances of their -lives, were compelled to spend a large portion of their time in -cultivating an attitude of snobbery. But in his second term Speed found -them not so friendly. That was to be expected in any case, for while -much may be forgiven a man during his first probationary term, his -second is one in which he must prepare to be judged by stricter -standards. Besides the normal hardening of judgment, Speed was affected -by another even more serious circumstance. He had committed the -unpardonable offence of being too successful. Secretly, more than half -the staff were acutely jealous of him. Even those who were entirely -ineligible for the post at Lavery's, and would not have accepted it if -it had been offered them, were yet conscious of some subtle personal -chagrin in seeing Speed, after his first term, step into a place of such -power and dignity. They had the feeling that the whole business had been -done discreditably behind their backs, although, of course, the Masters -had no right, either virtual or technical, to be consulted in the matter -of appointments. Yet when they arrived at Millstead at the beginning of -the term and learned that Speed, their junior by ever so many years, had -married the Head's daughter during the vacation and had been forthwith -appointed to the mastership of Lavery's, they could not forbear an -instant sensation of ruefulness which developed later into more or less -open antagonism. Not all the talk about the desirability of young -married housemasters could dispel that curious feeling of having been -slighted. -</p> -<p> -Secretly, no doubt, they hoped that Lavery's would be too much for -Speed. And on the occasion of the row between Speed and Smallwood they -sympathised with the latter, regarding him as the victim of Speed's -monstrous and aggressive self-assertion. The circumstance that Speed -took few meals now in the Masters' Common-Room prevented the legend of -his self-assertiveness from being effectively smashed; as term -progressed and as Speed's eager and pertinacious enthusiasm about the -concert became apparent, the legend rather grew than diminished. -Clanwell, alone, perhaps, of all the staff, still thought of Speed -without feelings of jealousy, and that was rather because he regarded -him as one of his elder boys, to be looked after and advised when -necessary. He formed the habit of inviting Speed into his room to coffee -once or twice a week, and on these occasions he gave the young man many -hints drawn from his full-blooded, though rather facile, philosophy. -</p> -<p> -At the conclusion of one of these evening confabulations he caught hold -of Speed's arm as the latter was going out by the door and said: "I say, -Speed,—just before you go—there's a little matter I've been -wondering all night whether I'd mention to you or not. I hope you won't be -offended. I'm the last man to go round making trouble or telling tales, -and I'm aware that I'm risking your friendship if I say what I have in -mind." -</p> -<p> -"You won't do that," said Speed. "Say what you want to say." He stared -at Clanwell nervously, for at a call such as this a cloud of vague -apprehensions would swarm round and over him, filling the future with -dark dreads. -</p> -<p> -"It's about your wife," said Clanwell. "I'm not going to say much. It -isn't anything to worry about, I daresay. Perhaps it doesn't justify my -mentioning it to you. Your wife..." -</p> -<p> -"Well?" -</p> -<p> -"I should—keep an eye on her, if I were you. She's young, Speed, -remember. She's—" -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean—keep an eye on her? What should I keep an eye on -her for?" -</p> -<p> -"I told you, Speed, I wasn't going to say much. You mustn't imagine -yourself on the verge of a scandal—I don't suppose there's anything -really the matter at all. Only, as I was saying, she's young, and -she—she's apt to do unwise things. Once or twice lately, while you've -been out, she's had Smallwood in to tea." -</p> -<p> -"Smallwood!—Alone?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, alone." -</p> -<p> -Speed blushed furiously and was silent. A sudden new feeling, which he -diagnosed as jealousy, swept across him; followed by a further series of -feelings which were no more than various forms of annoyance and -exacerbation. He clenched his fists and gave a slight shrug of his -shoulders. -</p> -<p> -"How do you know all this?" he queried, in the staccato bark that was so -accurate a register of his temper. -</p> -<p> -"Smallwood isn't the fellow to keep such an affair secret," replied -Clanwell. "But don't, Speed, go and do anything rash. If I were you I -should go back and—" -</p> -<p> -"I shan't do anything rash," interrupted Speed, curtly. "You needn't -worry. Good-night.... I suppose I ought to thank you for your kindness -in telling me what you have." -</p> -<p> -When he had gone he regretted that final remark. It was, he decided, -uselessly and pointlessly cynical. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -It was a pity, perhaps, that in his present mood he went straight back -to Lavery's and to Helen. He found her sitting, as usual, by the fire -when he entered; he made no remark, but came and sat opposite to her. -Neither of them spoke for a few moments. That was not unusual for them, -for Helen had frequent fits of taciturnity, and Speed, becoming familiar -with them, found himself adopting similar habits. After, however, a -short space of silence, he broke it by saying: "Helen, do you mind if we -have a serious talk for a little while." -</p> -<p> -She looked up and said, quietly: "Where have you been?" -</p> -<p> -"Clanwell's," he replied, and as soon as he had done so he realised that -she would easily guess who had informed him. A pity that he had answered -her so readily. -</p> -<p> -"What do you want to ask me?" -</p> -<p> -He said, rather loudly, as always when he was nervous: "Helen, I'm going -to be quite straightforward. No beating about the bush, you -understand?—You've had Smallwood in here to tea lately, while I've -been out." -</p> -<p> -"Well?" Her voice, irritatingly soft, just as his own was irritatingly -loud, contained a mixture of surprise and mockery. "And what if I have?" -</p> -<p> -He gripped the arms of the wicker-chair with his fists, causing a -creaking sound that seemed additionally to discompose him. "Helen, you -can't do it, that's all. You mustn't. It won't do.... It..." -</p> -<p> -Suddenly she was talking at him, slowly and softly at first, then in a -rising, gathering, tempestuous torrent; her eyes, lit by the firelight, -blazed through the tears in them. "Can't I? Mustn't I? You say it won't -do? You can go out whenever and wherever you like, you can go out to -Clanwell's in the evening, you can walk down to the town with Clare, you -can have anybody you like in to tea, you choose your own friends, you -live your own life—and then you actually dare to tell me I -can't!—What is it to you if I make a friend of -Smallwood?—Haven't I the right to make friends without your -permission?—Haven't I the right to entertain <i>my</i> friends in -here as much as you have the right to entertain <i>your</i> -friends?—Kenneth, you think I'm a child, you call me a child, you -treat me as a child. <i>That's</i> what won't do. I'm a woman and I -won't be domineered over. So now you know it." -</p> -<p> -Her passion made him suddenly icily cool; he was no longer the least bit -nervous. He perceived, with calm intuition, that this was going to be -their first quarrel. -</p> -<p> -"In the first place," he began quietly, "you must be fair to me. Surely, -it is not extraordinary that I should go up to see Clanwell once or -twice during the week. He's a colleague and a friend. Secondly, walking -down into the town to see Clare home after rehearsals is a matter of -common politeness, which you, I think, asked me particularly to do. And -as for asking people in to tea, you have, as you say, as free a choice -in that as I have, except when you do something absolutely unwise. -Helen, I'm serious. Don't insist on this argument becoming a quarrel. If -it does, it will be our first quarrel, remember." -</p> -<p> -"You think you can move me by talking like that!" -</p> -<p> -"My dear, I think nothing of the sort. I simply do not want to quarrel. -I want you to see my point of view, and I'm equally anxious to see -yours. With regard to this Smallwood business, you must, if you think a -little, realise that in a place like Millstead you can't behave -absolutely without regard for conventions. Smallwood, remember, is -nearly your own age. You see what I mean?" -</p> -<p> -"You mean that I'm not to be trusted with any man nearly my own age?" -</p> -<p> -"No, I don't mean that. The thought that there could be anything in the -least discreditable in the friendship between Smallwood and you never -once crossed my mind. I know, of course, that it is perfectly honest and -above-board. Don't please, put my attitude down to mere jealousy. I'm -not in the least jealous." -</p> -<p> -What surprised him more than anything else in this amazing chain of -circumstances, was that he was sitting there talking to her so calmly -and deliberately, almost as if he were arguing an abstruse point in a -court of law! Of this new cold self that was suddenly to the front he -had had no former experience. And certainly it was true to say that at -that moment there was not in him an atom of jealousy. -</p> -<p> -She seemed to shrivel up beneath the coldness of his argument. She said, -doggedly: "I'm not going to give way, Kenneth." -</p> -<p> -They both looked at each other then, quite calmly and subconsciously a -little awed, as if they could see suddenly the brink on which they were -standing. -</p> -<p> -"Helen, I don't want to domineer over you at all. I want you to be as -free to do what you like as I am. But there are some things, which, for -my sake and for the sake of the position I hold here, you ought not to -do. And having Smallwood here alone when I am away is one of those -things." -</p> -<p> -"I don't agree. I have as much right to make a friend of Smallwood as -you have to make a friend of—say Clare!" -</p> -<p> -The mention of Clare shifted him swiftly out of his cool, calculating -mood and back into the mood which had possessed him when he first came -into the room. "Not at all," he replied, sharply. "The cases are totally -different. Smallwood is a boy—a boy in my House. That makes all the -difference." -</p> -<p> -"I don't see that it makes any difference." -</p> -<p> -"Good heavens, Helen!—You don't see? Don't you realise the sort of -talk that is getting about? Doesn't it occur to you that Smallwood will -chatter about this all over the school and make out that he's conducting -a clandestine flirtation with you? Don't you see how it will undermine -all the discipline of the House—will make people laugh at me when my -back's turned—will—" -</p> -<p> -"And I'm to give up my freedom just to stop people from laughing at you, -am I?" -</p> -<p> -"Helen, <i>why</i> can't you see my point of view? Would you like to see me -a failure at Lavery's? Wouldn't you feel hurt to hear everybody sniggering -about me?" -</p> -<p> -"I should feel hurt to think that you could only succeed at Lavery's by -taking away my freedom." -</p> -<p> -"Helen, marriage isn't freedom. It's partnership. I can't do what I -like. Neither can you." -</p> -<p> -"I can try, though." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, and you can succeed in making my life at Millstead unendurable." -</p> -<p> -She cried fiercely: "I won't talk about it any longer, Kenneth. We don't -agree and apparently we shan't, however long we argue. I still think -I've a right to ask Smallwood in to tea if I want to." -</p> -<p> -"And I still think you haven't." -</p> -<p> -"Very well, then—" with a laugh—"that's a deadlock, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -He stared at the fire silently for some moments, then rose, and came to -the back of her chair. Something in her attitude seemed to him -blindingly, achingly pathetic; the tears rushed to his eyes; he felt he -had been cruel to her. One part of him urged him to have pity on her, -not to let her suffer, to give way, at all costs, rather than bring -shadows over her life; to appeal, passionately and perhaps -sentimentally, that she would, for his sake, if she loved him, make his -task at Lavery's no harder than it need be. The other part of him said: -No, you have said what is perfectly fair and true; you have nothing at -all to apologise for. If you apologise you will only weaken your -position for ever afterwards. -</p> -<p> -In the end the two conflicting parts of him effected a compromise. He -said, good-humouredly, almost gaily, to her: "Yes, Helen, I'm afraid it -is a deadlock. But that's no reason why it should be a quarrel. After -all, we ought to be able to disagree without quarrelling. Now, let's -allow the matter to drop, eh? Eh, Helen? Smile at me, Helen!" -</p> -<p> -But instead of smiling, she burst into sudden passionate sobbing. Her -head dropped heavily into her hands and all her hair, loosened by the -fall, dispersed itself over her hands and cheeks in an attitude of -terrific despair. On Speed the effect of it was as that of a knife -cutting him in two. He could not bear to see her misery, evoked by -something said or done, however justifiably, by him; pity swelled over -him in a warm, aching tide; he stooped to her and put a hand -hesitatingly on her shoulder. He was almost afraid to touch her, and -when, at the first sensation of his hand, she drew away hurriedly, he -crept back also as if he were terrified by her. Then gradually he came -near her again and told her, with his emotion making his voice gruff, that -he was sorry. He had treated her unkindly and oh—he was <i>so</i> -sorry. He could not bear to see her cry. It hurt him.... Dear, darling -Helen, would she forgive him? If she would only forgive him she could -have Smallwood in to tea every day if she wished, and damn what anybody -said about it! Helen, Helen.... -</p> -<p> -Yet the other part of him, submerged, perhaps, but by no means silent, -still urged: You haven't treated her unkindly, and you know you haven't. -You have nothing to apologise for at all. And if she does keep on -inviting Smallwood in you'll have the same row with her again, sooner or -later. -</p> -<p> -"Helen, <i>dear</i> Helen—<i>do</i> answer me!—Don't cry like -that—I can't bear it!—Answer me, Helen, answer me!" -</p> -<p> -Then she raised her head and put her arms out to him and kissed him with -fierce passion, so that she almost hurt his neck. Even then she did not, -for a moment, answer, but he did not mind, because he knew now that she -had forgiven him. And strangely enough, in that moment of passionate -embrace, there returned to him a feeling of crude, rudimentary jealousy; -he felt that for the future he would, as Clanwell had advised him, have -to keep an eye on her to make sure that none of this high, mountainous -love escaped from within the four walls of his own house. He felt -suddenly greedy, physically greedy; the thought, even instantly -contradicted, of half-amorous episodes between her and Smallwood -affected him with an insurgent bitterness which made the future heavy -with foreboding. -</p> -<p> -She whispered to him that she had been very silly and that she wouldn't -have Smallwood in again if he wished her not to. -</p> -<p> -Even amidst his joy at her submission, the word "silly" struck him as an -absurdly inadequate word to apply to her attitude. -</p> -<p> -He said, deliberately against his will: "Helen, darling, it was I who -was silly. Have Smallwood in as much as you like. I don't want to -interfere with your happiness." -</p> -<p> -He expected her then to protest that she had no real desire to have -Smallwood in, and when she failed to protest, he was disappointed. The -fear came to him that perhaps Smallwood did attract her, being so -good-looking, and that his granting her full permission to see him would -give that attraction a chance to develop. Jealousy once again stormed at -him. -</p> -<p> -But how sweet the reconciliation, after all! For concentrated loveliness -nothing in his life could equal the magic of that first hour with her -after she had ceased crying. It was moonlight outside and about midnight -they leaned for a moment out of the window with the icy wind stinging -their cheeks. Millstead asleep in the pallor, took on the semblance of -his own mood and seemed tremulous with delight. Somewhere, too, amidst -the dreaming loveliness of the moon-washed roofs and turrets, there was -a touch of something that was just a little exquisitely sad, and that -too, faint, yet quite perceptible, was in his own mood. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -There came the concert in the first week of December. No one, not even -those of the Common-Room who were least cordially disposed to him, could -deny that Speed had worked indefatigably and that his efforts deserved -success. Yet the success, merited though it was, was hardly likely to -increase his popularity among those inclined to be jealous of him. -</p> -<p> -Briskly energetic and full of high spirits throughout all the -rehearsals, and most energetic of all on the actual evening of the -performance, he yet felt, when all was over and he knew that the affair -had been a success, the onrush of a wave of acute depression. He had, no -doubt, been working too hard, and this was the natural reaction of -nerves. It was a cold night with hardly any wind, and during the evening -a thick fog had drifted up from the fenlands, so that there was much -excited talk among the visitors about the difficulties of getting to -their homes. Nothing was to be seen more than five or six yards ahead, -and there was the prospect that as the night advanced the fog would -become worse. The Millstead boys, enjoying the novelty, were scampering -across the forbidden quadrangle, revelling in the delightful risk of -being caught and in the still more delightful possibility of knocking -over, by accident, some one or other of the Masters. Speed, standing on -the top step of the flight leading down from the Big Hall, gazed into -the dense inky-black cloisters where two faint pin-pricks of light -indicated lamps no more than a few yards away. He felt acutely -miserable, and he could not think why. In a way, he was sorry that the -bustle of rehearsals, to which he had become quite accustomed, was all -finished with; but surely that was hardly a sufficient reason for -feeling miserable? Hearing the boyish cries from across the quadrangle -he suddenly felt that he was old, and that he wished he were young -again, as young as the youngest of the boys at Millstead. -</p> -<p> -Since the quarrel about Smallwood he and Helen had got on tolerably well -together. She had not asked Smallwood in to tea again, and he judged -that she did not intend to, though to save her dignity she would still -persist in her right to do so whenever she wished. The arrangement was -quite satisfactory to him. But, despite the settlement of that affair, -their relationship had suddenly become a thing of fierce, alternating -contrasts. They were either terrifically happy or else desperately -miserable. The atmosphere, when he came into Lavery's after an absence -of even a quarter of an hour, might either be dull and glowering or else -radiant with joy. He could never guess which it would be, and he could -never discover reasons for whichever atmosphere he encountered. But -invariably he was forced into responding; if Helen were moody and silent -he also remained quiet, even if his inclinations were to go to the piano -and sing comic songs. And if Helen were bright and joyful he forced -himself to boisterousness, no matter what press of gravity was upon -him. He sometimes found himself stopping short on his own threshold, -frightened to enter lest Helen's mood, vastly different from his own, -might drag him up or down too disconcertingly. Even their times of -happiness, more wonderful now than ever, were drug-like in possessing -after-effects which projected themselves backward in a tide of sweet -melancholy that suffused everything. He knew that he loved her more -passionately than ever, and he knew also that the beauty of it was -mysteriously impregnated with sadness. -</p> -<p> -She stole up to him now in the fog, dainty and pretty in her heavy fur -cloak. She put a hand on his sleeve; evidently this was one of her -happy moods. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Kenneth—<i>what</i> a fog! Aren't you glad everything's all -over? It went off wonderfully, didn't it? Do you think the Rayners will be -able to get home all right—they live out at Deepersdale, you know?" -</p> -<p> -Replying to the last of her queries, he said: "Oh yes, I don't think -it's quite bad enough to stop them altogether." -</p> -<p> -Then after a pause she went on: "Clare's just putting her things on and -I told her to meet you here. You'll see her home, won't you?" -</p> -<p> -He wondered in a vague kind of way why Helen was so desperately anxious -that he should take Clare on her way home, but he was far too exhausted -mentally to give the matter sustained excogitation. It seemed to him -that Helen suddenly vanished, that he waited hours in the fog, and that -Clare appeared mysteriously by his side, speaking to him in a voice that -was full of sharp, recuperative magic. "My dear man, aren't you going to -put your coat on?" Then he deliberately laughed and said: "Heavens, yes, -I'd forgotten—just a minute if you don't mind waiting!" -</p> -<p> -He groped his way back into the hall and to the alcove where he had laid -his coat and hat. The yellow light blurred his eyes with a film of -half-blindness; phantasies of doubt and dread enveloped him; he felt, -with that almost barometric instinct that he possessed, that things -momentous and incalculable were looming in the future. This Millstead -that had seemed to him so bright and lovely was now heavy with dark -mysterious menace; as he walked back across the hall through the long -avenues of disturbed chairs it occurred to him suddenly that perhaps -this foreboding that was hovering about him was not mental at all, but -physical; that he had overworked himself and was going to be ill. -Perhaps, even, he was ill already. He had a curious desire that someone -should confirm him in this supposition; when Clare, meeting him at the -doorway, said: "You're looking thoroughly tired out Mr. Speed," he -smiled and answered, with a touch of thankfulness: "I'm feeling, -perhaps, a little that way." -</p> -<p> -"Then," said Clare, immediately, "please don't trouble to see me home. I -can quite easily find my own way, I assure you. You go back to Lavery's -and get straight off to bed." -</p> -<p> -The thought, thus presented to him, of foregoing this walk into the town -with her, sent a sharp flush into his cheeks and pulled down the -hovering gloom almost on to his eyes; he knew then, more acutely than he -had ever guessed before, that he was desiring Clare's company in a way -that was a good deal more than casual. The realisation surprised him -just a little at first, and then surprised him a great deal because at -first it had surprised him only a little. -</p> -<p> -"I'd rather come with you if you don't mind," he said. "The walk will do -me good." -</p> -<p> -"What, <i>this</i> weather!" she exclaimed softly, and then laughed a -sharp, instant laugh. -</p> -<p> -That laugh galvanised him into determination. "I'm coming anyway," he -said quietly, and took her arm and led her away into the fog. -</p> -<p> -Out in the high road it was blacker and denser; the school railings, -dripping with grimy moisture, provided the only sure clue to position. -Half, at least, of Speed's energies were devoted to the task of not -losing the way; with the other half he was unable to carry out much of -the strange programme of conversation that had been gathering in his -mind. For many days past he had been accumulating a store of things to -say to her upon this memorable walk which, so far as he could judge, was -bound to be the last; now, with the opportunity arrived, he said hardly -anything at all. She chattered to him about music and Millstead and odd -topics of slight importance; she pressed her scarf to her lips and the -words came out curiously muffled and deep-toned, with the air of having -incalculable issues depending on them. But he hardly answered her at -all. And at last they reached Harrington's shop in the High Street, and -she shook hands with him and told him to get back as quickly as he could -and be off to bed. "And don't work so hard," were her last words to him, -"or you'll be ill." -</p> -<p> -Thicker and blacker than ever was the fog on the way back to the school, -and somehow, through what error he never discovered, he lost himself -amongst the narrow, old fashioned streets in the centre of the town. He -wandered about, as it seemed to him, for hours, creeping along walls and -hoping to meet some passer-by who could direct him. Once he heard -Millstead Parish Church beginning the chime of midnight, but it was from -the direction he least expected. At last, after devious manœuvring, he -discovered himself again on the main road up to the School, and this -time with great care he managed to keep to the route. As he entered the -main gateway he heard the school clock sounding the three-quarters. A -quarter to one! All was silent at Lavery's. He rang the bell timorously. -After a pause he heard footsteps approaching on the other side, but they -seemed to him light and airy; the bolts were pushed back, not with -Burton's customary noise, but softly, almost frightenedly. -</p> -<p> -He could see that it was Helen standing there in the porch, not Burton. -She flashed an electric torch in his face and then at his feet so that -he should see the step. -</p> -<p> -She said: "Come in quickly—don't let the fog in. You're awfully late, -aren't you? I told Burton to go to bed. I didn't know you were going to -stay at Clare's." -</p> -<p> -He answered: "I didn't stay at Clare's. I got lost in the fog on the way -back." -</p> -<p> -"Lost!" she echoed, walking ahead of him down the corridor towards his -sitting-room. The word echoed weirdly in the silence. "<i>Lost</i>, were -you?—So that's why you were late?" -</p> -<p> -"That's why," he said. -</p> -<p> -He followed her into the tiny lamp-lit room, full of firelight that was -somehow melancholy and not cheerful. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -She was silent. She sat in one of the chairs with her eyes looking -straight into the fire; while he took off his coat and hat and drew up -his own chair opposite to hers she neither moved nor spoke. It seemed to -him as he watched her that the room grew redder and warmer and more -melancholy; the flames lapped so noisily in the silence that he had for -an instant the absurd fear that the scores of sleepers in the -dormitories would be awakened. Then he heard, very faintly from above, -what he imagined must be an especially loud snore; it made him smile. As -he smiled he saw Helen's eyes turned suddenly upon him; he blushed as if -caught in some guilty act. He said: "Can you hear somebody snoring up in -the Senior dormitory?" -</p> -<p> -She stared at him curiously for a moment and then replied: "No, and -neither can you. You said that to make conversation." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't!" he cried, with genuine indignation. "I distinctly heard it. -That's what made me smile." -</p> -<p> -"And do you really think that the sound of anybody snoring in the Senior -dormitory would reach us in here? Why, we never hear the maids in a -morning and they make ever such a noise!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but then there are so many other noises to drown it. However, it -may have been my imagination." -</p> -<p> -"Or it may have been your invention, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"I tell you, Helen, I <i>did</i> think that I heard it! It <i>wasn't</i> my -invention. What reason on earth should I have for inventing it? Oh, -well, anyway, it's such a trifling matter—it's not worth arguing -about." -</p> -<p> -"Then let's stop arguing. You started it." -</p> -<p> -Silence again. The melancholy in the atmosphere was charged now with an -added quality, something that weighed and threatened and was dangerous. -He knew that Helen had something pressing on her mind, and that until -she flung it off there would be no friendliness with her. And he wanted -friendliness. He could not endure the torture of her bitter silences. -</p> -<p> -"Helen," he said, nervously eager, "Helen, there's something the matter. -Tell me what it is." -</p> -<p> -"There's nothing the matter." -</p> -<p> -"Are you sure?" -</p> -<p> -"Quite sure." -</p> -<p> -"Then why are you so silent?" -</p> -<p> -"Because I would rather be silent than make conversation." -</p> -<p> -"That's sarcastic." -</p> -<p> -"Is it? If you think it is——" -</p> -<p> -"Helen, please be kind to me. If you go on as you are doing I'm sure I -shall either cry or lose my temper. I'm tired to death after all the -work of the concert and I simply can't bear this attitude of yours." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I can't change my attitude to please you." -</p> -<p> -"Apparently not." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Now</i> who's sarcastic? Good heavens, do you think I've nothing to do -but suit your mood when you come home tired at one o'clock in the -morning—You spend half the night with some other woman and then when -you come home, tired out, you expect me to soothe and make a fuss of -you!" -</p> -<p> -"Helen, that's a lie! I walked straight home with Clare. You specially -asked me to do that." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't specially ask you to stay out with her till one o'clock in the -morning." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't stay with her till then. To begin with, it isn't one o'clock -even yet.... Remember that the concert was over about eleven. I took -Clare straight home and left her long before midnight. It wasn't my -fault I lost my way in the fog." -</p> -<p> -"Nor mine either. But perhaps it was Clare's, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"Helen, I can't bear you to insinuate like that! Tell me frankly what -you suspect, and then I'll answer frankly!" -</p> -<p> -"You wouldn't answer frankly. And that's why I can't tell you frankly." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I think it's scandalous——" -</p> -<p> -She interrupted him fiercely with: "Oh, yes, it's scandalous that I -should dare to be annoyed when you give all your friendship to another -woman and none to me, isn't it? It's scandalous that when you come home -after seeing this other woman I shouldn't be perfectly happy and bright -and ready to kiss and comfort you and wheedle you out of the misery -you're in at having to leave her! You only want me for a comforter, and -it's so scandalous when I don't feel in the humour to oblige, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"Helen, it's not true! My friendship belongs to you more than -to——" -</p> -<p> -"Don't tell me lies just to calm me into suiting your mood. Do you think -I haven't noticed that we haven't anything in common except that we love -each other? We don't know what on earth to talk about when we're alone -together. We just know how to bore each other and to torture each other -with our love. Don't you realize the truth of that? Don't you find -yourself eagerly looking forward to seeing Clare; Clare whom you can -talk to and be friendly with; Clare who's your equal, perhaps your -superior, in intellect? Lately, I've given you as many chances to see -her as I could, because if you're going to tire of me I'd rather you do -it quickly. But I'm sorry I can't promise to be always gay and amusing -while it's going on. It may be scandalous that I can't, but it's the -truth, anyway!" -</p> -<p> -"But, my dear Helen, what an extraordinary bundle of misunderstandings -you've got hold of! Why——" -</p> -<p> -"Oh yes, you'd like to smooth me down and persuade me it's all my own -misunderstanding, I daresay, as you've always been able to do! But the -effect doesn't last for very long; sooner or later it all crops up -again. It's no use, Kenneth. I'm not letting myself be angry, but I tell -you it's not a bit of use. I'm sick to death of wanting from you what I -can't get. I've tried hard to educate myself into being your equal, but -it doesn't seem to make you value me any more. Possibly you like me best -as a child; perhaps you wouldn't have married me if you'd known I was -really a woman. Anyway, Kenneth, I can't help it. And there's another -thing—I'm miserably jealous—of Clare. If you'd had a grain of -ordinary sense you might have guessed it before now." -</p> -<p> -"My dear Helen——" -</p> -<p> -Then he stopped, seeing that she was staring at him fearlessly. She was -different, somehow, from what she had ever been before; and this -quarrel, if it could be called a quarrel, was also different both in -size and texture. There was no anger in her; nothing but stormy -sincerity and passionate outpouring of the truth. A new sensation -overspread him; a thrill of surprised and detached admiration for her. -If she were always like this, he thought—if she were always proud, -passionate, and sincere—how splendidly she would take possession of -him! For he wanted to belong to her, finally and utterly; he was anxious -for any enslavement that should give him calm and absolute anchorage. -</p> -<p> -His admiration was quickly superseded by astonishment at her -self-revelation. -</p> -<p> -"But Helen—" he gasped, leaning over the arm of his chair and putting -his hand on her wrist, "Helen, I'd no idea! <i>Jealous</i>! You jealous of -Clare! What on earth for? Clare's only an acquaintance! Why, you're a -thousand times more to me than Clare ever is or could be!" -</p> -<p> -"Kenneth!" She drew her arm away from the touch of his hand with a -gesture that was determined but not contemptuous. "Kenneth, I don't -believe it. Perhaps you're not trying to deceive me; probably you're -trying to deceive yourself and succeeding. Tell me, Kenneth, truthfully, -don't you sometimes wish I were Clare when you're talking to me? When -we're both alone together, when we're neither doing nor saying anything -particular, don't you wish you could make me vanish suddenly and have -Clare in my place, and—and—" bitterness crept into her voice -here—"and call me back when you wanted the only gift of mine which -you find satisfactory? You came back to-night, miserable, because you'd -said good-bye to Clare, and because you couldn't see in the future any -chances of meeting her as often as you've been able to do lately. You -wanted—you're wanting it now—Clare's company and Clare's -conversation and Clare's friendship. And because you can't have it -you're willing to soothe yourself with my pretty little babyish ways, -and when you find you can't have <i>them</i> either you think it's -scandalous! Kenneth, my dear, dear Kenneth, I'm not a baby any longer, -even if I ever was one—I'm a woman now, and you don't like me as -much. I can't help it. I can't help being tortured with jealousy all the -time you're with Clare. I can't help wanting what Clare has of you more -than I want what I have of you myself. I can't -help—sometimes—hating her—loathing her!" -</p> -<p> -He was speechless now, made so by a curious dignity with which she spoke -and the kindness to him that sounded in everything that she said. He was -so tired and sorry. He leaned his head in his arms and sobbed. Some -tragedy that had seemed to linger in the lamp-lit room ever since he had -come into it out of the fog, was now about his head blinding and -crushing him; all the world of Millstead, spread out in the panorama of -days to come, appeared in a haze of forlorn melancholy. The love he had -for Helen ached in him with a sadness that was deeper now than it had -ever been. -</p> -<p> -And then, suddenly, she was all about him, kneeling beside him, stroking -his hair, taking his hand and pressing it to her breast, crying softly -and without words. -</p> -<p> -He whispered, indistinctly: "Helen, Helen, it's all right. Don't you -worry, little Helen. I'm not quite well to-night, I think. It must be -the strain of all that concert work.... But I'll be all right when I've -had a rest for a little while.... Helen, darling, you mustn't cry about -me like that!" -</p> -<p> -Then she said, proudly, though her voice still quivered: "I'm not -worrying, dear. And you'll see Clare again soon, because I shall ask her -to come here. You've got to choose between us, and Clare shall have a -fair chance, anyway.... And now come to bed and sleep." -</p> -<p> -He gave her a smile that was more babyish than anything that she had -ever been or done. And with her calm answering smile the sadness seemed -somehow a little lifted. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FOUR -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -He was in bed for three days with a temperature (but nothing more -serious); Howard, the School doctor, chaffed him unmercifully. "You're a -lucky man. Speed, to be ill in bed with Mrs. Speed to nurse you! Better -than being up in the Sick-room, isn't it?" Once the idea occurred to -Speed that he might be sickening for some infectious complaint, in which -case he would be taken away and isolated in the Sanatorium. When he -half-hinted the possibility of this to Howard, the latter said, laughing -loudly: "You needn't worry, Speed. I know you don't want to lose your -pretty little nurse, do you? I understand you, young man—I was your -age once, you know." -</p> -<p> -But the strange thing was that what Howard supposed Speed didn't want -was just what he did want. He wanted to lose Helen for a little while. -Not because he didn't love her. Not because of any reason which he could -dare to offer himself. Merely, he would admit, a whimsical desire to be -without her for a short time; it would, he thought, clutching hold of -the excuse, save her the work of attending to him. He could hardly -understand himself. But the fact was, Helen saddened him. It was -difficult to explain in detail; but there was a kind of aura of -melancholy which seemed to follow her about wherever she went. In the -short winter afternoons he lay awake watching her, listening to the -distant cheering on the footer pitches, sniffing the aroma of tea that -she was preparing for him; it was all so delicious and cosy, and yet, in -a curious, blinding way, it was all so sad. He felt he should slide into -madness if he were condemned to live all his days like these, with warm -fires and twilit meals and Helen always about him in attendance. He -could not understand why it was that though he loved her so dearly yet -he should not be perfectly happy with her. -</p> -<p> -How strange it was to lie there all day listening to all the sounds of -Millstead! He heard the School-bell ringing the end of every period, the -shouts of the boys at call-over, the hymns in the chapel—(his Senior -organ-pupil was deputising for him)—Burton locking up at night, the -murmur of gramophones in the prefects' studies; and everything, it -seemed to him, was full of this same rich sadness. Then he reasoned with -himself; the sadness must be a part of him, since he saw and felt it in -so many things and places. It was unfair to blame Helen. Poor Helen, how -kind she was to him, and how unkindly he treated her in return! -Sometimes he imagined himself a blackguard and a cad, wrecking the -happiness of the woman who would sacrifice everything for his sake. Once -(it was nearly dark, but the lamp had not yet been lit) he called her to -him and said, brokenly: "Helen, darling—Helen, I'm so sorry." "Sorry -for what, Kenneth?" she enquired naturally. And he thought and pondered -and could only add: "I don't know—nothing in particular. I'm just -sorry, that's all." And once also he lashed himself into a fervour of -promises. "I <i>will</i> be kind to you, Helen, dearest. We <i>will</i> be -friends, we two. There's nothing that anybody shall have of me that you -shan't have also. I <i>do</i> want you to be happy, Helen." And she -<i>was</i> happy, then, happy and miserable at the same time; crying for -joy at the beautiful sadness of it all. -</p> -<p> -Those long days and nights! The wind howled up from the fenlands and -whiffed through the ivy on the walls; the skies were grey and desolate, -the quadrangle a waste of dingy green. It was the time of the terminal -House-Matches, and when Milner's beat School House in the Semi-Final the -cheering throng passed right under Speed's window, yelling at the tops -of their voices and swinging deafening rattles. In a few days Milner's -would play Lavery's in the Final, and he hoped to be up by then and able -to watch it. -</p> -<p> -Of course, he had visitors. Clanwell came and gave him endless chatter -about the House-Matches; a few of the less influential prefects paid him -a perfunctory visit of condolence and hoped he would soon be all right -again. And then Doctor and Mrs. Ervine. "Howard tells me it is -nothing—um—to be—um, er, perturbed about. -Just, to use an—um—colloquialism, run down, eh, -Speed? The strain of the—um—concert must have been -quite—um—considerable. By the way, Speed, I ought to -congratulate you—the whole evening passed in the most—um, -yes—the most satisfactory manner." And Mrs. Ervine said, in her -rather tart way: "It's quite a mercy they only come once a year, or we -should all be dead very soon, I think." -</p> -<p> -And Clare. -</p> -<p> -Helen had kept her promise. She had written to Clare asking her to tea -on a certain afternoon, and she had also contrived that when Clare came -she should be transacting important and rather lengthy business with the -Matron. The result was that Speed, now in his sitting-room though still -not allowed out of doors, was there alone to welcome her. -</p> -<p> -He had got into such a curious state of excitement as the time neared -for her arrival that when she did come he was almost speechless. She -smiled and shook hands with him and said, immediately: "I'm so sorry to -hear you haven't been very well. I feel partly responsible, since I -dragged you all that way in the fog the other night. But I'm not going -to waste too much pity on you, because I think you waste quite enough on -yourself, don't you?" -</p> -<p> -He laughed weakly and said that perhaps he did. -</p> -<p> -Then there was a long pause which she broke by saying suddenly: "What's -the matter with you?" -</p> -<p> -"Matter with me? Oh, nothing serious—only a chill——" -</p> -<p> -"That's not what I mean. I want to know what's the matter with you that -makes you look at me as you were doing just then." -</p> -<p> -"I—I—I didn't know I was. I—I——" -</p> -<p> -He stopped. What on earth were they going to talk about? And what was -this look that he had been giving her? He felt his cheeks burning; a -fire rising up all around him and bathing his body in warmth. -</p> -<p> -She said, obviously with the desire to change the subject: "What are you -and Helen going to do at Christmas?" -</p> -<p> -Pulling himself together with an effort, he replied: "Well, we're not -certain yet. My—er—my people have asked us down to their -place." -</p> -<p> -"And of course you'll go." -</p> -<p> -"I'm not certain." -</p> -<p> -"But why not?" -</p> -<p> -He paused. "Well, you see—in a way, it's a private reason. I -mean——" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, well, if it's a private reason, you certainly mustn't tell me. -Let's change the subject again. How are the House-Matches going?" -</p> -<p> -"Look here, I didn't mean to be rude. And I do want to tell you, as it -happens. In fact, I wouldn't mind your advice if you'd give it me. Will -you?" -</p> -<p> -"Better put the case before me first." -</p> -<p> -"Well, you see, it's like this." He was so desperately and unaccountably -nervous that he found himself plunging into the midst of his story -almost before he realised what he was doing. "You see, my people were in -Australia for a holiday when I married Helen. I had to marry her -quickly, you remember, because of taking this housemastership. And I -don't think they quite liked me marrying somebody they'd never seen." -</p> -<p> -"Perfectly natural on their part, my dear man. You may as well admit -that much of their case to start with." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I suppose it is rather natural. But you don't know what my people -are like. I don't think they'll care for Helen very much. And Helen is -bound to be nervous at meeting them. I expect we should have a pretty -miserable Christmas if we went." -</p> -<p> -"I should think in your present mood you'd have a pretty miserable -Christmas whatever you did. And since you asked for my advice I'll give -it you. Buck yourself up; don't let your imagination carry you away; and -take Helen to see your people. After all, she's perfectly presentable, -and since you've married her there's nothing to be gained by keeping her -out of their sight, is there? Don't think I'm callous and unfeeling -because I take a more practical view of things than you do. I'm a -practical person, you see, Mr. Speed, and if I had married you I should -insist on being taken to see your people at the earliest possible -opportunity." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" -</p> -<p> -"Because," she answered, "I should be anxious for them to see what an -excellent choice you'd made!" -</p> -<p> -That was thoughtlessly said and thoughtfully heard. After a pause Speed -said, curiously: "That brings one to the question—supposing I had -married you, should I have made an excellent choice?" -</p> -<p> -With a touch of surprise and coldness she replied: "That wasn't in my -mind, Mr. Speed. You evidently misunderstood me." -</p> -<p> -And at this point Helen came into the room. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -During that strange twilight hour while the three of them were -tea-drinking and conducting a rather limp conversation about local -matters, Speed came suddenly to the decision that he would not see Clare -again. Partly, perhaps, because her last remark just before Helen -entered had hurt him; he felt that she had deliberately led him into a -position from which she could and did administer a stinging snub. But -chiefly his decision was due to a careful and pitiful observation of -Helen; he saw her in a dazzling white light of admiration, for she was -deliberately (he could see) torturing herself to please him. She was -acutely jealous of Clare, and yet, because she thought he liked Clare, -she was willing to give her open hospitality and encouragement, despite -the stab that every word and gesture must mean to her. It reminded him -of Hans Andersen's story about the mermaid who danced to please her -lover-prince even though each step cost her agonies. The pathos of it, -made more apparent to him by the literary comparison, overwhelmed him -into a blind fervour of resolution: he would do everything in his power -to bring happiness to one who was capable of such love and such -nobility. And as Helen thus swung into the focus of his heroine-worship, -so Clare, without his realising it, took up in his mind the other -inevitable position in the triangle; she was something, at least, of the -adventuress, scheming to lure his affections away from his brave little -wife. The fact that he was not conscious of this conventional outlook -upon the situation prevented his reason from assuring him that Clare, so -far from scheming to lure his affections from Helen, had just snubbed -him unmercifully for a remark which any capable adventuress would have -rejoiced over. -</p> -<p> -Anyway, he decided there and then, he would put a stop to this tangled -and uncomfortable situation. And after tea, when Helen, on a pretext -which he knew quite well to be a fabrication, left him alone again with -Clare, he could think of no better method of procedure than a -straightforward request. -</p> -<p> -So he summed up the necessary determination to begin: "Miss Harrington, -I hope you won't be offended at what I'm going to say——" -</p> -<p> -Whereat she interrupted: "Oh, I don't often take offence at what people -<i>say</i>. So please don't be frightened." -</p> -<p> -"You see ..." He paused, watching her. He noticed, curiously enough for -the first time, that she was—well, not perhaps pretty, but -certainly—in a way—attractive. In the firelight especially, she -seemed to have the most searching and diabolically disturbing eyes. They -made him nervous. At last he continued: "You see, I'm in somewhat of a -dilemma. A quandary, as it were. In fact—in fact I——" -</p> -<p> -"Supposing we use our ordinary English language and say that you're in a -mess, eh? 'Quandary'! 'Dilemma'!" She laughed with slight contempt. -</p> -<p> -"I don't—I don't quite see the point of—of -your—objection," he said, staring at her with a certain puzzled -ruefulness. "What has my choice of a word got to do with it?" -</p> -<p> -"To do with what?" she replied, instantly. -</p> -<p> -"With what—with what we're going to talk about." -</p> -<p> -"Since I haven't the faintest idea what we're going to talk about, how -can I say?" -</p> -<p> -"Look here!" He got up out of his chair and stood with his back to the -fire. He kept a fretful silence for a moment and then said, with a sharp -burst of exasperation: "Look here, I don't know what you're driving at! -I only know that you're being most infernally rude!" -</p> -<p> -"Don't forget that a moment ago you were asking me not to take offence." -</p> -<p> -"You're damned clever, aren't you?" he almost snarled. -</p> -<p> -That was all he could think of in the way of an answer to her. He stood -there swaying lightly in front of the fire, nursing, as it were, his -angry bafflement. -</p> -<p> -"Thank you," she replied. "I regard that as a very high tribute. And I'm -nearly as pleased at one other thing—I seem to have shaken you partly -out of your delightful and infuriating urbanity.... But now, we're not -here to compliment each other. You've got something you want to say to -me, haven't you?" -</p> -<p> -He stared at her severely and said: "Yes, I have. I want to ask you not -to come here any more." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" She shot the word out at him almost before he had finished -speaking. -</p> -<p> -"Because I don't wish you to." -</p> -<p> -"You forget that I come at Helen's invitation, not at yours." -</p> -<p> -"I see I shall have to tell you the real reason, then. I would have -preferred not to have done. My wife is jealous of you." -</p> -<p> -He expected her to show great surprise, but the surprise was his when -she replied almost casually: "Oh yes, she was jealous of <i>you</i> -once—that first evening we met at the Head's house—do you -remember?" -</p> -<p> -No, he did not remember. At least, he did now that she called it to his -memory, but he had not remembered until then. Curious ... -</p> -<p> -He was half-disappointed that she was so calm and unconcerned about it -all. He had anticipated some sort of a scene, either of surprise, -remorse, indignation, or sympathy. Instead of which she just said "Oh, -yes," and indulged in some perfectly irrelevant reminiscence. Well, not -perhaps irrelevant, but certainly inappropriate in the circumstances. -</p> -<p> -"You see," he went on, hating her blindly because she was so serene; -"you see she generously invites you here, because she thinks I like you -to come. Well, of course, I do, but then, I don't want to make it hard -for her. You understand what I mean? I think it is very generous of her -to—to act as she does." -</p> -<p> -"I think it is very foolish unless she has the idea that in time she can -conquer her jealousy.... But I quite understand, Mr. Speed. I won't come -any more." -</p> -<p> -"I hope you don't think——" -</p> -<p> -"Fortunately I have other things to think about. I assure you I'm not -troubling at all. Even loss of friendship——" -</p> -<p> -"But," he interrupted eagerly, "surely it's not going to mean that, Miss -Harrington? Just because you don't come here doesn't mean that you and -I——" -</p> -<p> -She laughed in his face as she replied, cutting short his remarks: "My -dear Mr. Speed, you are too much of an egoist. It wasn't your friendship -I was thinking about—it was Helen's. You forget that I've been -Helen's friend for ten years.... Well, good-bye...." -</p> -<p> -The last straw! He shook hands with her stiffly. -</p> -<p> -When she had gone his face grew hard and solemn, and he clenched his -fists as he stood again with his back to the fire. He felt—the -word <i>came</i> to his mind was a staggering inevitability—he -felt <i>dead</i>. Absolutely dead. And all because she had gone and he -knew that she would not come again. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Those were the dark days of the winter term, when Burton came round the -dormitories at half-past seven in the mornings and lit all the flaring -gas-jets. There was a cold spell at the beginning of December when it -was great fun to have to smash the film of ice on the top of the water -in the water-jugs, and one afternoon the school got an extra -half-holiday to go skating on one of the neighbouring fens that had been -flooded and frozen over. Now Speed could skate very well, even to the -point of figure-skating and a few easy tricks, and he took a very simple -and human delight in exhibiting his prowess before the Millstead boys. -He possessed a good deal of that very charming boyish pride in athletic -achievement which is so often mistaken for modesty, and there was no -doubt that the reports of his accomplishments on the wide expanse of -Dinglay Fen gave a considerable fillip to his popularity in the school. -</p> -<p> -A popularity, by the way, which was otherwise very distinctly on the -wane. He knew it, felt it as anyone might have felt it, and perhaps, -additionally, as only he in all the world could feel it; it was the dark -spectre in his life. He loved success; he was prepared to fight the -sternest of battles provided they were victories on the road of -progress; but to see his power slipping from him elusively and without -commotion of any kind, was the sort of thing his soul was not made to -endure. Fears grew up in him and exaggerated reality. He imagined all -kinds of schemes and conspiracies against him in his own House. The -enigma of the Head became suddenly resolved into a sinister hostility to -himself. If a boy passed him in the road with a touch of the cap and a -"Good morning" he would ask himself whether the words contained any -ominous subtlety of meaning. And when, on rare occasions, he dined in -the Masters' Common-Room he could be seen to feel hostility rising in -clouds all about him, hostility that would not speak or act, that was -waiting mute for the signal to uprise. -</p> -<p> -He was glad that the term was nearly over, not, he told himself, because -he was unhappy at Millstead, but because he needed a holiday after the -hard work of his first term of housemastership. The next term, he -decided, would be easier; and the term after that easier still, and so -on, until a time would come when his work at Millstead would be exactly -the ideal combination of activity and comfort. Moreover, the next term -he would not see Clare at all. He had made up his mind about that It -would be easier to see her not at all than to see her only a little. And -with the absolute snapping of his relations with her would come that -which he desired most in all the world; happiness with Helen. He wanted -to be happy with Helen. He wanted to love her passionately, just as he -wanted to hate Clare passionately. For it was Clare who had caused all -the trouble. He hugged the comfortable thought to himself; it was Clare, -and Clare only, who had so far disturbed the serenity of his world. -Without Clare his world would have been calm and unruffled, a paradise -of contentment and love of Helen. -</p> -<p> -Well, next term, anyway, his world should be without Clare. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -On the day that term ended he felt quite boyish and cheerful. For during -that final week he and Helen had been, he considered, perfectly happy; -moreover, she had agreed to go with him to his parents for Christmas, -and though the visit would, in some sense, be an ordeal, the -anticipation of it was distinctly pleasant. Somehow—he would not -analyse his sensation exactly—somehow he wanted to leave the -creeper-hung rooms at Lavery's and charge full tilt into the world -outside; it was as if Lavery's contained something morbidly beautiful -that he loved achingly, but desired to leave in order that he might -return to love it more and again. When he saw the railway vans being -loaded up with luggage in the courtyard he felt himself tingling with -excitement, just as if he were a schoolboy and this the close of his -first miserable term. Miserable! Well, yes, looking back upon it he -could agree that in a certain way it had been miserable, and in another -way it had been splendid, rapturous, and lovely. It had been full, -brimming full, of <i>feelings</i>. The feelings had whirled tirelessly -about him in the dark drawing-room, had wrapped him amidst themselves, had -tossed him high and low to the most dizzy heights and the most submerged -depths; and now, aching from it all, he was not sorry to leave for a -short while this world of pressing, congesting sensation. -</p> -<p> -He even caught himself looking forward to his visit to his parents, a -thing he had hardly ever done before. For his parents were, he had -always considered, "impossible" parents, good and generous enough in -their way, but "impossible" from his point of view. They were—he -hesitated to use the word "vulgar," because that word implied so many -things that they certainly were not—he would use instead the rather -less insulting word "materialist." They lived in a world that was full of -"things"—soap-factories and cars and Turkey carpets and gramophones -and tennis-courts. Moreover, they were almost disgustingly wealthy, and -their wealth had followed him doggedly about wherever he had tried to -escape from it. They had regarded his taking a post in a public-school -as a kind of eccentric wild oats, and did not doubt that, sooner or -later, he would come to his senses and prefer one or other of the -various well-paid business posts that Sir Charles Speed could get for -him. Oh, yes, undoubtedly they were impossible people. And yet their -very impossibility would be a relief from the tensely charged atmosphere -of Lavery's. -</p> -<p> -On the train he chatted gaily to Helen and gave her some indication of -the sort of people his parents were. "You mustn't be nervous of them," -he warned her. "They've pots of money, but they're not people to get -nervous about. Dad's all right if you stick up for yourself in front of -him, and mother's nice to everybody whether she likes them or not. So -you'll be quite safe ... and if it freezes there'll be ice on the -Marshpond...." -</p> -<p> -At the thought of this last possibility his face kindled with -anticipation. "Cold, Helen?" he queried, and when she replied "Yes, -rather," he said jubilantly: "I shouldn't be surprised if it's started -to freeze already." -</p> -<p> -Then for many minutes he gazed out through the carriage window at the -pleasant monotony of the Essex countryside, and in a short while he felt -her head against his shoulder. She was sleeping. "I do love her!" he -thought triumphantly, giving her a side-glance. And then the sight of a -pond with a thin coating of ice gave him another sort of triumph. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="INTERLUDE">INTERLUDE</a></h4> - -<h4>CHRISTMAS AT BEACHINGS OVER</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>I</h4> - -<p> -"BEACHINGS OVER, near Framlingay, Essex. Tel. Framlingay 32. Stations: -Framlingay 2½ miles; Pumphrey Bassett 3 miles." -</p> -<p> -So ran the inscription on Lady Speed's opulent bluish notepaper. The -house was an old one, unobtrusively modernised, with about a half-mile -of upland carriage-drive leading to the portico. As Helen saw it from -the window of the closed Daimler that had met them at Framlingay -station, her admiration secured momentary advantage of her nervousness. -</p> -<p> -In another moment Speed was introducing her to his mother. -</p> -<p> -Lady Speed was undoubtedly a fine woman. "Fine" was exactly the right -word for her, for she was just a little too elderly to be called -beautiful and perhaps too tall ever to have been called pretty. Though -she was upright and clear-skinned and finely-featured, and although the -two decades of her married life had seemed to leave very little -conspicuous impression on her, yet there was a sense, perhaps, in which -she looked her age; it might have been guessed rightly as between forty -and fifty. She had blue eyes of that distinctively English hue that -might almost be the result of gazing continually upon miles and miles of -rolling English landscape; and her nose, still attractively -<i>retroussé</i>, though without a great deal of the pertness it must have -had in her youth, held just enough of patricianly bearing to enable her -to manage competently the twenty odd domestics whose labours combined to -make Beachings Over habitable. -</p> -<p> -She kissed Helen warmly. "My dear, I'm so pleased to meet you. But -you'll have to rough it along with us, you know—I'm afraid we don't -live at all in style. We're just ordinary country folks, that's all.... -And when you've had your lunch and got refreshed I must take you over -the house and show you everything...." -</p> -<p> -Speed laughed and said: "Mother always tells visitors that they've got -to rough it. But there's nothing to rough. I wonder what she'd say if -she had to live three months at Lavery's." -</p> -<p> -"Lavery's?" said Lady Speed, uncomprehendingly. -</p> -<p> -"Lavery's is the name of my House at Millstead. I was made housemaster -of it at the beginning of the term." He spoke a little proudly. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, I seem to know the name. I believe your father was mentioning -something about it to me once, but I hardly remember—" -</p> -<p> -"But how on earth did he know anything about it? I never wrote telling -him." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I expect he heard it from somebody.... I really couldn't tell you -exactly.... I've had a most awful morning before you came—had to -dismiss one of the maids—she'd stolen a thermos-flask. So ungrateful -of her, because I'd have given it to her if she'd only asked me for it. One -of my best maids, she was." -</p> -<p> -After lunch Richard arrived. Richard was Speed's younger brother, on -vacation from school; a pleasant-faced, rather ordinary youngster, -obviously prepared to enter the soap-boiling industry as soon as he left -school. In the afternoon Richard conducted the pair of them round the -grounds and outbuildings, showing them the new Italian garden and the -pergola and the new sunken lawn and the clock-tower built over the -garage and the new gas-engine to work the electric light plant and the -new pavilion alongside the rubble tennis courts and the new wing of the -servants' quarters that "dad" was "throwing out" from the end of the old -coach-house. Then, when they returned indoors, Lady Speed was ready to -conduct them over the interior and show them the panelled bed-rooms and -the lacquered cabinets in the music-room and the bathroom with a solid -silver bath and the gramophone worked by electricity and the wonderful -old-fashioned bureau that somebody had offered to buy off "dad" for -fifteen hundred guineas. -</p> -<p> -"Visitors always have to go through it," said Speed, when his mother had -left them. "Personally I'm never the least bit impressed, and I can't -understand anyone else being it." -</p> -<p> -Helen answered, rather doubtfully: "But it's a lovely house, Kenneth, -isn't it? I'd no idea your people were like this." -</p> -<p> -"Like what?" -</p> -<p> -"So—so well-off." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, then the display <i>has</i> impressed you?" He laughed and said, -quietly: "I'd rather have our own little place at Lavery's, wouldn't -you?" -</p> -<p> -While he was saying it he felt: Yes, I'd rather have it, no doubt, but -to be there now would make me utterly miserable. -</p> -<p> -She replied softly: "Yes, because it's our own." -</p> -<p> -He pondered a moment and then said: "Yes, I suppose that's one of the -reasons why <i>I</i> would." -</p> -<p> -After a pleasant tea in the library he took Helen into the music-room, -where he played Chopin diligently for half-an-hour and then, by special -request of Richard, ran over some of the latest revue songs. Towards -seven o'clock Lady Speed sailed in to remind Richard that it was getting -near dinner-time. "I wish you'd run upstairs and change your clothes, -dear—you know father doesn't like you to come in to dinner in -tweeds.... You know," she went on, turning to Helen, "Charles isn't a -bit fussy—none of us trouble to really <i>dress</i> for dinner, -except when we're in town—only—only you have to put a limit -somewhere, haven't you?" -</p> -<p> -As the hour for dinner approached it seemed as if a certain mysteriously -incalculable imminence were in the air, as if the whole world of -Beachings Over were steeling itself in readiness for some searching and -stupendous test of its worth. It was, indeed, ten minutes past eight -when the sound of a motor-horn was heard in the far distance. "That's -Edwards," cried Lady Speed, apprehensively. "He always sounds his horn -to let us know.... Now, Dick dear, don't let him know we've been waiting -for him—you know how he hates to think he's late...." -</p> -<p> -And in another moment a gruff voice in the hall could be heard -dismissing the chauffeur with instructions for the morrow. "Ten-thirty -sharp, Edwards. The Daimler if it's wet. Gotter go over and see -Woffenheimer." -</p> -<p> -And in yet another moment Lady Speed was rushing forward with an eager, -wifely kiss. "You aren't late, Charles. All the clocks are a little -fast.... Kenneth has come ... and this ..." she spoke a trifle -nervously ... "this is Helen...." -</p> -<p> -Sir Charles distributed a gruff nod to the assembly, afterwards holding -out his hand to be shaken. "Ahdedoo, Kenneth, my lad.... How are you? -Still kicking eh? ... Ahdedoo, Helen ... don't mind me calling you Helen, -do you? Well, Richard, my lad...." -</p> -<p> -A bald-headed, moustached, white-spatted, morning-coated man, Sir -Charles Speed. -</p> -<p> -Dinner opened in an atmosphere of gloomy silence. Lady Speed kept -inaugurating conversations that petered out into a stillness that was -broken only by Sir Charles' morose ingurgitation of soup. Something was -obviously amiss with him. Over the <i>entrée</i> it came out. -</p> -<p> -"Had to sack one of the foremen to-day." -</p> -<p> -Lady Speed looked up with an appropriate gesture of horror and -indignation. "And I had to dismiss one of my maids too! What a curious -coincidence! How ungrateful people are!" -</p> -<p> -"Sneaking timber out of the woodyard," continued Sir Charles, apparently -without the least interest in his wife's adventure with the maid. -</p> -<p> -But with the trouble of the sacked foreman off his chest Sir Charles -seemed considerably relieved, though his gloom returned when Richard had -the misfortune to refer to one of the "fellows" at his school as "no -class at all—an absolute outsider." "See here, my lad," exclaimed -Sir Charles, holding up his fork with a peach on the end of it, "don't -you ever let me hear you talking <i>that</i> sort of nonsense! Don't you -forget that <i>I</i> started life as an office-boy cleaning out -ink-wells!" Richard flushed deeply and Lady Speed looked rather -uncomfortable. "Don't you forget it," added Sir Charles, mouthing -characteristically, and it was clear that he was speaking principally -for the benefit of Helen. "I don't want people to think I am what I'm -not. If I hadn't been lucky—and—and" he seemed to experience -a difficulty in choosing the right adjective—"and -<i>smart</i>—<i>smart</i>, mind—I might have been still -cleaning out ink-wells. See?" He filled up his glass with port and for a -moment there was sultry silence again. Eventually, he licked his lips -and broke it. "You know," turning to address Kenneth, "it's all this -education that's at the root of the trouble. Makes the workers too big -for their shoes, as often as not.... Mind you, I'm a democrat, I am. -Can't abide snobbery at any price. But I don't believe in all this -education business. I paid for you at Cambridge and what's it done for -you? You go an' get a job in some stuffy little school or -other—salary about two hundred a year—and God knows how long -you'd stay there without a promotion if I hadn't given somebody the tip -to shove you up!" -</p> -<p> -"What's that?" Kenneth exclaimed, almost under his breath. -</p> -<p> -Sir Charles appeared not to have heard the interruption. He went on, -warming to his subject and addressing an imaginary disputant: "No, sir, -I do <i>not</i> believe in what is termed Education in this country. It -don't help a man to rise if he hasn't got it in him.... Why, look at -<i>me</i>! <i>I</i> got on without education. Don't you suppose other -lads, if they're smart enough, can do the same? Don't you think I'm an -example of what a man can become when he's had no education?" -</p> -<p> -The younger Speed nodded. The argument was irrefutable. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -After dinner Speed managed to get his father alone in the library. "I -want to know," he said, quietly, "what you meant when you said something -about giving somebody the tip to shove me up. I want to know exactly, -mind." -</p> -<p> -Sir Charles waved his arm across a table. -</p> -<p> -"Don't you talk to me like that, my lad. I'm too old for you to -cross-examine. I'm willin' to tell you anythin' you like, only I won't -be bullied into it. So now you know. Light yourself a cigar an', for -God's sake, sit down and look comfortable." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps I could look it if I felt it." -</p> -<p> -"Your own fault if you don't feel it. Damned ingratitude, I call it. Sit -down. I shan't answer a question till you're sitting down and smoking as -if you was a friend of mine an' not a damned commercial traveller." -</p> -<p> -Speed decided that he had better humour him; he sat down and toyed with -a cigar. "Now, if you'll please tell me." -</p> -<p> -"What is it you want me to tell you?" grunted Sir Charles. -</p> -<p> -"I want you to tell me what you meant by saying that you gave somebody a -tip to shove me up?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, my lad, you don't want to stay an assistant-master all your life, -do you?" -</p> -<p> -"That's not the point. I want to know what you did." -</p> -<p> -"Why, I did the usual thing that I'd always do to help somebody I'm -interested in." -</p> -<p> -"What's that?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, you know. Pull a few wires.... Man like me has a few wires he can -pull. I know people, you see—and if I just mention a little -thing—well, they generally remember it all right." -</p> -<p> -And he spread himself luxuriously in the arm-chair and actually smiled! -</p> -<p> -The other flushed hotly. "I see. May I ask whose help you solicited on -my behalf?" -</p> -<p> -"Don't talk like a melodrama, my lad. I'm your best friend if you only -knew it. What is it you want to know now?" -</p> -<p> -"I want to know whose help you asked for?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, I had a little conversation with Lord Portway. And I had five -minutes' chat over the telephone with old Ervine. Don't you see—" -he leaned forward with a touch of pleading in his voice—"don't you -see that I want you to <i>get</i> on? I've always wanted you to do well -in the world. Your brother's doing well and there's not a prouder father -in England to-day than I am of him. And when young Richard leaves school -I hope he'll get on well too. Now, you're a bit different. Dunno why you -are, but you are, an' I've always recognised it. You can't say I've ever -tried to force you to anythin' you didn't want, can you? You wanted to -go to the 'varsity—well, I don't believe it's a good thing for a -young man to waste his years till he's twenty-two—nevertheless it -was your choice, an' I let you do it. I paid for you, I gave you as much -money as you wanted, an' I didn't complain. Well, then you wanted to be -a Master in a school. You got yourself the job without even consulting -me about it, but did I complain? No, I let you go your own way. I let -you do what I considered an absolutely damsilly thing. Still, I thought, -if you're going to be a teacher you may as well have ambitions an' rise -to the top of the profession. So I thought I'd just put in a word for -you. That was all. I want you to <i>get on</i>, my lad, no matter what -line you're in. I've always bin as ambitious for you as I have bin for -myself." -</p> -<p> -The other said: "I can see you meant well." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Meant</i> well? And is it extraordinary that I should mean well to -my own son? Then, there's another thing. You go and get married. Well, I -don't mind that. I believe in marriage. I was married myself when I was -nineteen an' I've never once regretted it: But you go an' get married -all of a hurry while I'm travellin' the other side o' the world, an' you -don't even send me so much as a bit o' weddin'-cake! I don't say: is it -<i>fair</i>? I just say: is it <i>natural</i>? I come home to England to -find a letter tellin' me you've married the Headmaster's daughter!" -</p> -<p> -"Well, why shouldn't I?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm not sayin' you shouldn't, my lad. I'm not a snob, an' I don't care -who you marry s'long as she's as good as you are. I don't want you to -marry a duchess. I don't even care if the girl you marry hasn't a cent. -See—I don't mind if she's a dustman's daughter, s'long—s'long, -mind, as she's your equal! That's all. Now you understand me. <i>Do</i> -you?" -</p> -<p> -"I think I understand you." -</p> -<p> -"Good. Now have some more port. An' while you're spendin' Christmas with -us, for God's sake, have a good time and give the girl a good time, too. -Is she fond of theatres?" -</p> -<p> -"I—I don't know—well—she might be—" -</p> -<p> -"Well, you can have the closed Daimler any night you like to take you -into town and bring you back. And if she's fond of motorin' you can have -the Sunbeam durin' the daytime. Remember that. I want you to have a dam' -good time.... Dam' good.... See? Now have some more port before we join -your mother...." -</p> -<p> -"No thanks. I should be drunk if I had any more." -</p> -<p> -"Nonsense, my lad. Port won' make you drunk. Dam' good port, isn' -it? ... Wouldn' make you drunk, though.... Don' talk dam' nonsense -to me...." -</p> -<p> -He was slightly drunk himself. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -That interview with his father had a disturbing effect upon Speed. He -had expected a row in which his father would endeavour to tyrannise over -him, instead of which Sir Charles, if there had been any argument at -all, had certainly got the better of it. In a sort of way it did seem -rather unfair to have married without letting his parents know a word -about it beforehand. But, of course, there had been good reasons. First, -the housemastership. He couldn't have been given Lavery's unless he had -married. Ervine had stressed very strongly the desirability of married -housemasters. And it had therefore been necessary to do everything -rather hurriedly in order to be able to begin at Lavery's in the -September. -</p> -<p> -It was when he reflected that, but for his father's intervention, he -would probably never have been offered Lavery's that he felt the keenest -feeling of unrest. The more he thought about it the more manifestly -certain incidents in the past became explainable to him. The hostility -of the Common-Room for instance. Did they guess the sort of -"wire-pulling" that had been going on? Probably they did not know -anything definitely, but wasn't it likely that they would conclude that -such a startling appointment must have been the result of some ulterior -intrigue? And wasn't it natural that they should be jealous of him? -</p> -<p> -He hated Ervine because, behind all the man's kindness to him, he saw -now merely the ignoble desire to placate influence. Ervine had done it -all to please his father. It was galling to think that that adulatory -speech on the Prize-Day, which had given him such real and genuine -pleasure, had been dictated merely by a willingness to serve the whim of -an important man. It was galling to think that Lord Portway's smiles and -words of commendation had been similarly motivated. It was galling to -think that, however reticent he was about being the son of Sir Charles -Speed, the relationship seemed fated to project itself into his career -in the most unfortunate and detestable of ways. -</p> -<p> -Then he thought of Helen. Her motives, of all, were pure and untainted; -she shared neither her father's sycophancy nor his own father's -unscrupulousness. She had married him for no other reason than that she -loved him. And in the midst of the haze of indecent revelations that -seemed to be enveloping him, her love for him and his for her brightened -like stars when the night deepens. -</p> -<p> -And then, slowly and subtly at first, came even the suspicion of her. -Was it possible that she had been the dupe of her father? Was it -possible that Ervine very neatly and cleverly had Sir Charles hoist with -his own petard, making the young housemaster of Lavery's at the same -time his own son-in-law? And if so, had Helen played up to the game? The -thought tortured him evilly. He felt it to be such an ignoble one that -he must never breathe it to Helen, lest it should be utterly untrue. Yet -to keep it to himself was not the best way of getting rid of it. It grew -within him like a cancer; it filled all the unoccupied niches of his -mind; it made him sick with apprehension. -</p> -<p> -And then, at last, on Christmas Eve he was cruel to her. There had been -a large party at Beachings Over and she had been very shy and nervous -all the evening. And now, after midnight, when they had gone up to their -bedroom, he said, furiously: "What was the matter with you all -to-night?" -</p> -<p> -She said: "Nothing." -</p> -<p> -He said: "Funny reason for not speaking a word all the evening. Whatever -must people have thought of you?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know. I told you I should be nervous. I can't help it. You -shouldn't have brought me if you hadn't been prepared for it." -</p> -<p> -"You might have at least said you'd got a headache and gone off to bed." -</p> -<p> -She said, frightenedly: "Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, what's the matter—why -are you talking to me like this?" -</p> -<p> -"I hope I'm not being unfair," he replied, imperturbably. -</p> -<p> -She flung herself on the bed and began to sob. -</p> -<p> -He went on unfastening his dress tie and thinking: She married me -because my father has money. She married me because her father told her -to. She schemed to get me. The housemastership was a plant to get me -married to her before I knew whether I really wanted her or not. -</p> -<p> -He was carefully silent the whole rest of the night, though it was hard -to lie awake and hear her sobbing. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -The next evening, Christmas Day, there was another party. She looked -rather pale and unhappy, but he saw she was trying to be lively. He felt -acutely sorry for her, and yet, whenever he felt in the mood to relent, -he fortified his mind by thinking of her duplicity. He thought of other -things besides her duplicity. He thought of her stupidity. Why was she -so stupid? Why had he married a woman who couldn't gossip at a small -Christmas party without being nervous? Why had he married a woman who -never spoke at table unless she were spoken to? Other women said the -silliest things and they sounded ordinary; Helen, forcing herself in -sheer desperation to do so, occasionally said the most ordinary things -and they sounded silly. If she ventured on any deliberate remark the -atmosphere was always as if the whole world had stopped moving in order -to see her make a fool of herself; what she said was probably no more -foolish than what anybody else might have said, yet somehow it seemed -outlined against the rest of the conversation as a piece of stark, -unmitigated lunacy. Speed found himself holding his breath when she -began to speak. -</p> -<p> -After the rest of the party had gone away he went: into the library for -a cigarette. Helen had gone up to bed; it was past two o'clock, but he -felt very wakeful and disturbed. The morning-room adjoined the library, -and as he sat smoking by the remains of the fire, he heard conversation. -He heard his father's gruff voice saying: "God knows, Fanny, I don't." -</p> -<p> -A remark apposite to a great many subjects, he reflected, with a -half-smile. He had no intention to eavesdrop, but he did not see why he -should move away merely because they were talking so loudly about some -probably unimportant topic that their voices carried into the next room. -</p> -<p> -Then he heard his mother say: "I think she means well, Charles. Probably -she's not used to the kind of life here." -</p> -<p> -His father replied: "Oh, I could tell if it was just that. What I think -is that she's a silly little empty-headed piece of goods, an' I'd like -to know what the devil that fool of a boy sees in her!" -</p> -<p> -The blood rushed to his cheeks and temples; he gripped the arms of his -chair, listening intently now to every word, with no thought of the -right or wrong of it. -</p> -<p> -The conversation went on. -</p> -<p> -"She's more intelligent when you get her alone, Charles. And I'm rather -afraid you frighten her too." -</p> -<p> -"Frighten her be damned. If she'd any guts in her she'd like me. The -right sort of women always do like me." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps she does like you. That wouldn't stop her from being frightened -of you, would it? I'm frightened of you myself, sometimes." -</p> -<p> -"Don't say damsilly things to me, Fanny. All I say is, I'm not a snob, -an' I've always felt I'd let all my lads choose for themselves -absolutely in a matter like marriage. But I've always hoped and trusted -that they'd marry somebody worth marryin'. I told the boy the other -night—if he'd married a dustman's daughter I'd have welcomed her if -she'd been pretty or clever or smart or something or other about her." -</p> -<p> -"But Charles, she <i>is</i> pretty." -</p> -<p> -"Think so? Not my style, anyway. An' what's prettiness when there's -nothing else? I like a girl with her wits about her, smart business-like -sort o' girl, pretty if you like—all the better if she is—but a -girl that needn't depend on her looks. Why, I'd rather the lad have married -my typist than that silly little thing! Fact, I've a few factory girls -I'd rather have had for a daughter-in-law than the one I've got!" -</p> -<p> -"Well, it's no good troubling about it, Charles. He's done it now, and -if he can put up with her I think we ought to. She's fond enough of him, -I should think." -</p> -<p> -"Good God, she ought to be! Probably she's got enough sense to know -what's a bargain, anyway." -</p> -<p> -"I think you're a bit too severe, Charles. After all, we've only seen -her for a week." -</p> -<p> -"Well, Fanny, answer me a straight question—are you really pleased -with her?" -</p> -<p> -"No, I can't say I am, but I realise we've got to make the best of her. -After all, men do make silly mistakes, don't they?" -</p> -<p> -"Over women they do, that's a fact.... You know, it's just struck -me—that old chap Ervine's played a dam' smart game." -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"I bet he put her on to it. I thought I was getting somethin' out of him -when I had that talk over the 'phone, but I'll acknowledge he's gone one -better on me. Smart man, Ervine. I like a smart man, even if it's me he -puts it across. I like him better than his daughter." -</p> -<p> -"I should hate him. I think the whole business is dreadful. Perfectly -dreadful.... Did you tell Rogers he could go to bed? ... I said -breakfast at nine-thirty ... yes, ten if you like ..." -</p> -<p> -The voices trailed off into the distance. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -He crept up the stairs carefully, trying not to let them creak. At the -landing outside his room he paused, looking out of the window. It was a -night full of beautiful moonlight, and on the new clock-tower over the -garage the weather-vane glinted like a silver arrow. Snow lay in patches -against the walls, and the pools amidst the cobble-stones in the -courtyard were filmed over with thin ice. As he looked out upon the -scene the clock chimed the quarter. -</p> -<p> -He took a few paces back and turned the handle of the door. He felt -frightened to enter. What should he say to her? Would she be in bed and -asleep? Would she be pretending to be asleep? Should he say nothing at -all, but wait till morning, when he had thought it all over? -</p> -<p> -He switched on the light and saw that she was in bed. He saw her golden -hair straggling forlornly over the pillow. Something in that touched -him, and suspicion, always on guard against the softness of his heart, -struck at him with a sudden stab. She had plotted. She was a schemer. -The forlorn spread of her hair over the pillow was part of the duplicity -of her. -</p> -<p> -He hardened. He said, very quietly and calmly: "Are you awake, Helen?" -</p> -<p> -The hair moved and shook itself. "Kenneth!" -</p> -<p> -"I want to speak to you." -</p> -<p> -"What is it, Kenneth?" -</p> -<p> -"Did you—?—Look here—" He paused. How could he put it to -her? If he said straight out: "Did you plot with your father to marry me?" -she would, of course, say no. He must be careful. He must try to trap her -without her being aware. -</p> -<p> -"Look here—did you know that it was due to my father's influence -that I got Lavery's?" -</p> -<p> -"No, was it? It was good of your father to help you, wasn't it?" -</p> -<p> -Stupid little fool! he thought. (Good God, that was nearly what his -father had said she was!) -</p> -<p> -He said: "He meant it kindly, no doubt. But you didn't know?" -</p> -<p> -"How should I know?" -</p> -<p> -"I thought perhaps your father might have told you." -</p> -<p> -"I was never interested in his business." -</p> -<p> -Pause. A sudden sharp wave of irritation made him continue: -</p> -<p> -"I say, Helen, you might remember whom you're talking to when you're at -dinner. The Lord Randolph you were saying the uncomplimentary things -about happens to be the cousin of the lady sitting on your left." -</p> -<p> -"Really? Oh, I'm so sorry, Kenneth. I didn't know. D'you think she'd be -offended?" -</p> -<p> -"I shouldn't think she'd trouble very much about your opinion, but the -publicity which you gave to it would probably annoy her a little." -</p> -<p> -She suddenly hid her head in her arms and burst into tears. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Kenneth—let's go away to-morrow! Let's go back to Millstead! -Oh, I can't bear this any more—I've been miserable ever since I -came. I told you it would all go wrong, Kenneth!—Kenneth, I -<i>have</i> tried, but it's no good—I can't be happy!—Take -me away to-morrow, Kenneth. Kenneth, if you don't I shall run away -myself—I simply can't bear any more of it. You've hated me ever -since you came here, because I don't make you feel proud of me. Oh, I -<i>wish</i> I did—I <i>do</i> wish I could! But I've tried so many -times—I've made myself sick with trying—and now that I know -it's no good, let me go back to Millstead where I can give up trying for -a while. Kenneth, be kind to me—I can't help it—I can't help -not being all that you want me to be!" -</p> -<p> -She held out her arms for him to have taken hold of, but he stood aside. -</p> -<p> -"I think perhaps a return to Millstead would be the best thing we could -do," he said, calmly. "We certainly don't seem to be having a very -exhilarating time here.... Breakfast is at ten, I think. That means that -the car can take us down to catch the 11.50.... I'd better 'phone Burton -in the morning, then he can air the place for us. Would you like to dine -at School to-morrow? I was thinking that probably your father would -invite us if he knew we were coming back so soon?" -</p> -<p> -It was in his mind that perhaps he could scheme some trap at the Head's -dinner-table that would enmesh them both. -</p> -<p> -She said drearily: "Oh, I don't mind, Kenneth. Just whatever you want." -</p> -<p> -"Very well," he replied, and said no more. -</p> -<p> -He lay awake until he fancied it must be almost dawn, and all the time -he was acutely miserable. He was so achingly sorry for her, and yet the -suspicion in his mind fortified him against all kindly impulses. He felt -that he would never again weakly give way to her, because the thought of -her duplicity would give him strength, strength even against her tears -and misery. And yet there was one thing the thought of her duplicity did -not give him; it did not give him peace. It made him bitter, unrestful, -an</p> -<p>gry with the world. -</p> -<p> -And he decided, just before he went to sleep, that these new -circumstances that had arisen justified him in taking what attitude he -liked towards Clare. If he wanted to see her he would see her. He would -no longer make sacrifices of his friends for Helen's sake. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BOOK_III">BOOK III</a></h4> - -<h4>THE LENT TERM</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER ONE -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -"The worst term uv the three, sir, that's my opinion," said Burton, -pulling the curtains across the window at dusk. -</p> -<p> -"What makes you think that?" asked Speed, forcing himself to be affable. -</p> -<p> -"Well, you see, sir, the winter term—or, prop'ly speakin', sir, I -should say the Michaelmas term—isn't so bad because there's the -Christmas 'olidays to look forward to. But the Lent Term always seems to -me to be ten times worse, because there's nothin' at the end of it to -look forward to. Is there now, sir?" -</p> -<p> -"There's the Easter holidays and the spring weather." -</p> -<p> -Burton grinned. "That's if you're an optimist, sir." -</p> -<p> -He was an old man, deeply attached to the school and very reliable, but -prone to take odd liberties on the strength of age and service. Speed -always felt that in Burton's eyes he was a youngster, hardly less a -youngster than one of the prefects, and that Burton considered himself -as the central planet of Lavery's round which Speed revolved as merely a -satellite. The situation had amused him until now; but on this afternoon -of the return from Beachings Over a whole crowd of sinister suspicions -assailed him. In Burton's attitude he seemed to detect a certain -carefully-veiled mockery; was it possible that Burton knew or guessed -the secret of his appointment to Lavery's? Was it also possible that -Burton had pierced through his marriage with Helen and had seen the -sinister scheme behind it? -</p> -<p> -He stared hard at Burton. The man was old in a rather theatrical way; he -clumped about exactly like the faithful retainer in the old-fashioned -melodrama; if you addressed him he would turn round, put one hand to his -ear, to leer at you, and say grotesquely: "Sir?" He was the terror of -all the housemaids, the pet of all the Junior boys, and a sort of -communal butler and valet to the prefects. And, beyond all doubt, he was -one of the sights of Lavery's. For the moment Speed detested him. -</p> -<p> -"I say, Burton." -</p> -<p> -The turn, the hand to ear, the leer, and the grotesque interrogative: -"Sir?" -</p> -<p> -"How long have you been at Millstead?" -</p> -<p> -"Fifty-one year, sir, come next July. I started when I was fourteen year -old, sir, peelin' potaties in the old kitchins that used to be -underneath Milner's. I come to Lavery's when I was twenty-four as -underporter. I remember old Mr. Hardacre that wuz 'ousemaster before Mr. -Lavery, Sir. Mr. Lavery was 'ousemaster for thirty-eight year, sir, an' -a very great friend of mine. He came to see me only larst Toosday, sir, -a-knockin' at the pantry door just like an old pal o' mine might. He wuz -wantin' to know 'ow the old place was gettin' on." -</p> -<p> -Speed's glance hardened. He could imagine Lavery and Burton having a -malicious conversation about himself. -</p> -<p> -Burton went on, grinning: "He was arskin' after you, Mr. Speed. I told -'im you wuz away spendin' the Christmas with Sir Charles and Lady Speed. -An' I told him you wuz doin' very well an' bein' very popular, if you'll -pard'n the liberty I took." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, certainly," said Speed, rather coldly. -</p> -<p> -When Burton had gone out he poked up the fire and pondered. Now that he -was back at Millstead he wished he had stayed longer in Beachings Over. -Millstead was absolutely a dead place in vacation time, and in the -Christmas vacation nothing more dreary and uniformly depressing had ever -come within his experience. Dr. and Mrs. Ervine, so Potter informed him, -had gone to town for a few days and would not be back until after the -New Year. None of the other housemasters was in residence. The huge -empty footer pitches, hardly convalescent after the frays of the past -term, were being marked off for hockey by the groundsman; the chapel was -undergoing a slothful scrubbing by a platoon of chattering charwomen; -the music-rooms were closed; the school organ was in the hands of the -repairers; the clock in the chapel belfry had stopped, apparently -because it was nobody's business to wind it up during vacation-time. -</p> -<p> -Perhaps it would freeze enough for skating on Dinglay Fen, was his most -rapturous hope. Helen was shopping in the village, and he expected her -back very soon. It was nearly dark now, but the groundsman was still -busy. There was something exquisitely forlorn in that patient -transference from cricket to footer, from footer to hockey, and then -from hockey to cricket again, which marked the passage of the years at -Millstead. He wondered how long it would all last. He wondered what sort -of an upheaval would be required to change it. Would famine or -pestilence or war or revolution be enough? -</p> -<p> -Helen came in. It was curious that his suspicion of her, at first -admitted to be without confirmation, had now become almost a certainty; -so that he no longer felt inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, -or even that there was any doubt whose benefit he could give her. -</p> -<p> -While they were having tea he suddenly decided that he would go out that -evening alone and walk himself into a better humour. A half-whimsical -consciousness of his own condition made him rather more kind to her; he -felt sorry for anybody who had to put up with him in his present mood. -He said: "I think I'll have a walk after tea, Helen. I'll be back about -eight. It'll do me good to take some exercise." -</p> -<p> -She gave him a sudden, swift, challenging look, and he could see exactly -what was in her eyes. She thought he was going to see Clare. -</p> -<p> -The thought had not been in his mind before. But now he was at the mercy -of it; it invaded him; after all, why shouldn't he visit Clare? -Furthermore, what right had Helen to stop him? He put on his hat and coat -in secret tingling excitement; he would go down into the village and -visit Clare. Curious that he hadn't thought of it before! Helen had -simply no right to object. And as he turned his mind to all the -suspicions that had so lately crowded into it, he felt that he was -abundantly justified in visiting a friend of his, even if his wife were -foolishly jealous of her. -</p> -<p> -"Back about eight," he repeated, as he opened the door to go out. -Somehow, he wanted to kiss her. He had always kissed her before going -out from Lavery's. But now, since she made no reply to his remark, -presumably she did not expect it. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -The Millstead road was black as jet, for the moon was hidden behind the -thickest of clouds. It was just beginning to freeze, and as he strode -along the path by the school railings he thought of those evenings in -the winter term when he had seen Clare home after the concert -rehearsals. Somehow, all that seemed ages ago. The interlude at -Beachings Over had given all the previous term the perspective of -immense distance; he felt as if he had been housemaster at Lavery's for -years, as if he had been married to Helen for years, and as if Clare -were a friend whom he had known long years ago and had lost sight of -since. -</p> -<p> -As he reached the High Street he began to feel nervous. After all, Clare -might not want to see him. He remembered vaguely their last interview -and the snub she had given him. He looked further back and remembered -the first time he had ever seen her; that dinner at the Head's house on -the first evening of the summer term.... -</p> -<p> -But he could not help being nervous. He tried to think that what he was -doing was something perfectly natural and ordinary; that he was just -paying a call on a friend as anybody might have done on a return from a -holiday. He was angry with himself for getting so excited about the -business. And when he rang the bell of the side-door next to the shop he -had the distinct hope that she would not be in. -</p> -<p> -But she was in. -</p> -<p> -She came to the door herself, and it was so dark outside that she could -not see him. "Who is it?" she asked, and he replied, rather fatuously -expecting her to recognise his voice immediately: "Me. I hope I'm not -disturbing you." -</p> -<p> -She answered, in that characteristically unafraid way of hers: "I'm sure -I don't know in the least who you are. Will you tell me your name?" -</p> -<p> -Then he said, rather embarrassedly: "Speed, my name is." -</p> -<p> -"Oh?" -</p> -<p> -Such a strange surprised little "Oh?" He could not see her any more than -she could see him, but he knew that she was startled. -</p> -<p> -"Am I disturbing you?" he went on. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no. You'd better come inside. There's nobody in except myself, so I -warn you." -</p> -<p> -"Warn me of what?" -</p> -<p> -"Of the conventions you are breaking by coming in." -</p> -<p> -"Would you rather I didn't?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, don't trouble about me. It's yourself you must think about." -</p> -<p> -"Very well then, I'll come in." -</p> -<p> -"Right. There are five steps, then two paces along the level, and then -two more steps. It's an old house, you see." -</p> -<p> -In the dark and narrow lobby, with the front door closed behind him, and -Clare somewhere near him in the darkness, he suddenly felt no longer -nervous but immensely exhilarated, as if he had taken some decisive and -long contemplated step—some step that, wise or unwise, would at least -bring him into a new set of circumstances. -</p> -<p> -Something in her matter-of-fact directions was immensely reassuring; a -feeling of buoyancy came over him as he felt his way along the corridor -with Clare somewhat ahead of him. She opened a door and a shaft of -yellow lamplight came out and prodded the shadows. -</p> -<p> -"My little sitting-room," she said. -</p> -<p> -It was a long low-roofed apartment with curtained windows at either end. -Persian rugs and tall tiers of bookshelves and some rather good pieces -of old furniture gave it a deliciously warm appearance; a heavily shaded -lamp was the sole illumination. Speed, quick to appreciate anything -artistic, was immediately impressed; he exclaimed, on the threshold: "I -say, what a gloriously old-fashioned room!" -</p> -<p> -"Not all of it," she answered quietly. She turned the shade of the lamp -so that its rays focussed themselves on a writing-desk in an alcove. -"The typewriter and the telephone are signs that I am not at all an -old-fashioned person." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't say that, did I?" he replied, smiling. -</p> -<p> -She laughed. "Please sit down and be comfortable. It's nice to have such -an unexpected call. And I'm glad that though I'm banned from Lavery's -you don't consider yourself banned from here." -</p> -<p> -"Ah," he said. He was surprised that she had broached the question so -directly. He flushed slightly and went on, after a pause: "I think -perhaps the ban had better be withdrawn altogether." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, well—well, it doesn't matter—I didn't come here to talk -about it." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, you did. That's just what you did come here to talk about. -Either that or something more serious. You don't mean to tell me that -you pay an unconventional call like this just to tell me what an -enjoyable holiday you've had." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't have an enjoyable holiday at all," he answered. -</p> -<p> -"There! I guessed as much! After all, you wouldn't have come home so -soon if you'd been having a thoroughly good time, would you?" -</p> -<p> -"Helen wanted to come home." -</p> -<p> -She ceased her raillery of him and went suddenly serious. For some time -she stared into the fire without speaking, and then, in a different tone -of voice altogether she said: "Why did she want to come home?" -</p> -<p> -He began to talk rather fast and staccato. "I—I don't know whether -I ought to tell you this—except that you were Helen's friend and -can perhaps help me.... You see, Helen was very nervous the whole time, -and there were one or two dinner-parties, and she—well, not -exactly put her foot in it, you know, but was—well, rather -obviously out of everything. I don't know how it is—she seems -quite unable to converse in the ordinary way that people do—I -don't mean anything brilliant—few people converse -brilliantly—what I mean is that—well, she—" -</p> -<p> -She interrupted: "You mean that when her neighbour says, 'Have you heard -Caruso in Carmen?'—she hasn't got the sense to reply: 'Oh, yes, isn't -he simply gorgeous?'" -</p> -<p> -"That's a rather satirical way of putting it." -</p> -<p> -"Well, anyway, it seems a small reason for coming home. If I were -constitutionally incapable of sustaining dinner-party small-talk and my -husband brought me away from his parents for that reason, I'd leave him -for good." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't bring her away. She begged me to let her go." -</p> -<p> -"Then you must have been cruel to her. You must have made her think that -it mattered." -</p> -<p> -"Well, doesn't it matter?" -</p> -<p> -She laughed a little harshly. "What a different man you're becoming, Mr. -Speed! Before you married Helen you knew perfectly well that she was -horribly nervous in front of strangers and that she'd never show off -well at rather tiresome society functions. And yet if I or anybody else -had dared to suggest that it mattered you'd have been most tremendously -indignant. You used to think her nervousness rather charming, in fact." -</p> -<p> -He said, rather pathetically: "You've cornered me, I confess. And I -suppose I'd better tell you the real reason. Helen's nervousness doesn't -matter to me. It never has mattered and it doesn't matter now. It wasn't -that, or rather, that would never have annoyed me but for something -infinitely more serious. While I was at home I found out about my -appointment at Lavery's." -</p> -<p> -"Well, what about it?" -</p> -<p> -"It was my father got it for me. He interviewed Portway and Ervine and -God knows who else." -</p> -<p> -"Well?" -</p> -<p> -"Well?—Do you think I like to be dependent on that sort of help? Do -you think I like to remember all the kind things that people at Millstead -have said about me, and to feel that they weren't sincere, that they -were simply the result of a little of my father's wire-pulling?" -</p> -<p> -She did not answer. -</p> -<p> -"I left home," he went on, "because my father wanted to shove me into a -nice comfortable job in a soap-works. I wanted to earn my own living on -my own merits. And then, when I manage to get free, he thoughtfully -steps in front of me, so to speak, and without my knowing it, makes the -path smooth for me!" -</p> -<p> -"What an idealist you are, Mr. Speed!" -</p> -<p> -"What?" -</p> -<p> -"An idealist. So innocent of the world! Personally, I think your -father's action extremely kind. And also I regard your own condition as -one of babyish innocence. Did you really suppose that an unknown man, -aged twenty-three, with a middling degree and only one moderately -successful term's experience, would be offered the Mastership of the -most important House at Millstead, unless there'd been a little private -manœuvring behind the scenes? Did you think that, in the ordinary -course of nature, a man like Ervine would be only too willing to set you -up in Lavery's with his daughter for a wife?" -</p> -<p> -"Ah, that's it! He wanted me to marry Helen, didn't he?" -</p> -<p> -"My dear man, wasn't it perfectly obvious that he did? All through last -summer term you kept meeting her in the school grounds and behaving in a -manner for which any other Master would have been instantly sacked, and -all he did was to smile and be nice and keep inviting you to dinner!" -</p> -<p> -Speed cried excitedly: "Yes, that's what my father said. He said it was -a plant; that Ervine in the end proved himself the cleverer of the two." -</p> -<p> -"Your father told you that?" -</p> -<p> -"No, I overheard it." -</p> -<p> -"Your father, I take it, didn't like Helen?" -</p> -<p> -"He didn't see the best of her. She was so nervous." -</p> -<p> -He went on eagerly: "Don't you see the suspicion that's in my -mind?—That Ervine plotted with Helen to get me married to her! That -she married me for all sorts of sordid and miserable reasons!" -</p> -<p> -And then Clare said, with as near passion as he had ever yet seen in -her: "Mr. Speed, you're a fool! You don't understand Helen. -She has faults, but there's one certain thing about her—she's -straight—<i>absolutely</i> straight! And if you've been cruel to her -because you suspected her of being crooked, then you've done her a fearful -injustice! She's straight—straight to the point of obstinacy." -</p> -<p> -"You think that?" -</p> -<p> -"<i>Think</i> it? Why, man, I'm <i>certain</i> of it!" -</p> -<p> -And at the sound of her words, spoken so confidently and indignantly, it -seemed so to him. Of course she was straight. And he had been cruel to -her. He was always the cause of her troubles. It was always his fault. -And at that very moment, might be, she was crying miserably in the -drawing-room at Lavery's, crying for jealousy of Clare. A sudden fierce -hostility to Clare swept over him; she was too strong, too clever, too -clear-seeing. He hated her because it was so easy for her to see things -as they were; because all problems seemed to yield to the probing of her -candid eyes. He hated her because he knew, and had felt, how easy it was -to take help from her. He hated her because her sympathy was so -practical and abundant and devoid of sentiment. He hated her, perhaps, -because he feared to do anything else. -</p> -<p> -She said softly: "What a strange combination of strength and weakness -you are, Mr. Speed! Strong enough to follow out an ideal, and weak -enough to be at the mercy of any silly little suspicion that comes into -your mind!" -</p> -<p> -He was too much cowed down by the magnitude of his blunder to say a -great deal more, and in a short while he left, thanking her rather -embarrassedly for having helped him. And he said, in the pitch-dark -lobby as she showed him to the front door: "Clare, I think this visit of -mine had better be a secret, don't you?" -</p> -<p> -And she replied: "You needn't fear that I shall tell anybody." -</p> -<p> -When the door had closed on him outside and he was walking back along -the Millstead lane it occurred to him quite suddenly: Why, I called her -Clare! He was surprised, and perhaps slightly annoyed with himself for -having done unconsciously what he would never have done intentionally. -Then he wondered if she had noticed it, and if so, what she had thought. -He reflected that she had plenty of good practical sense in her, and -would not be likely to stress the importance of it. Good practical -sense! The keynote of her, so it seemed to him. How strong and helpful -it was, and yet, in another way, how deeply and passionately opposed to -his spirit! Why, he could almost imagine Clare getting on well with his -father. And when he reflected further, that, in all probability, his -father would like Clare because she had "her wits about her," it seemed -to him that the deepest level of disparagement had been reached. He -smiled to himself a little cynically; then in a wild onrush came remorse -at the injustice he had done to Helen. All the way back to Millstead he -was grappling with it and making up his mind that he would be -everlastingly kind to her in the future, and that, since she was as she -was, he would not see Clare any more. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -He found her, as he had more than half expected, sitting in the -drawing-room at Lavery's, her feet bunched up in front of the fire and -her hands clasping her knees. She was not reading or sewing or even -crying; she was just sitting there in perfect stillness, thinking, -thinking, thinking. He knew, as by instinct, that this was not a pose of -hers; he knew that she had been sitting like that for a quarter, a half, -perhaps a whole hour before his arrival; and that, if he had come later, -she would probably have been waiting and thinking still. Something in -her which he did not understand inclined her to brood, and to like -brooding. As he entered the room and saw her thus, and as she gave one -swift look behind her and then, seeing it was he, turned away again to -resume her fireside brooding, a sudden excruciatingly sharp feeling of -irritation rushed over him, swamping for the instant even his remorse: -why was she so silent and aggrieved? If he had treated her badly, why -did she mourn in such empty, terrible silence? Then remorse recovered -its sway over him and her attitude seemed the simple and tremendous -condemnation of himself. -</p> -<p> -He did not know how to begin; he wanted her to know how contrite he was, -yet he dared not tell her his suspicion. Oh, if she had only the tact to -treat him as if it had never happened, so that he in return could treat -her as if it had never happened, and the unhappy memory of it all be -speedily swept away! But he knew from the look on her that she could -never do that. -</p> -<p> -He walked up to the back of her chair, put his hand on her shoulder, and -said: "Helen!" -</p> -<p> -She shrugged her shoulders with a sudden gesture that made him take his -hand away. She made no answer. -</p> -<p> -He blundered after a pause: "Helen, I'm so sorry I've been rather hard -on you lately—it's all been a mistake, and I promise—" -</p> -<p> -"You've been down to see Clare!" she interrupted him, with deadly -quietness, still watching the fire. -</p> -<p> -He started. Then he knew that he must lie, because he could never -explain to her the circumstances in a way that she would not think -unsatisfactory. -</p> -<p> -"Helen, I haven't!" he exclaimed, and his indignation sounded sincere, -perhaps because his motive in lying was a pure one. -</p> -<p> -She made no answer to that. -</p> -<p> -He went on, more fervently: "I didn't see Clare, Helen! Whatever made -you think that?—I just went for a walk along the Deepersdale -road—I wanted some exercise, that was all!" -</p> -<p> -She laughed—an awful little coughing laugh. -</p> -<p> -"You went to see Clare," she persisted, turning round and, for the first -time, looking him in the eyes. "I followed you, and I saw you go in -Clare's house." -</p> -<p> -"You did?" he exclaimed, turning suddenly pale. -</p> -<p> -"Yes. Now what have you got to say?" -</p> -<p> -He was, rather to his own surprise, quite furious with her for having -followed him. "I've simply got this to say," he answered, hotly. "You've -done no good by following me. You've made me feel I can't trust you, and -you've made yourself feel that you can't trust me. You'll never believe -the true explanation of why I went to Clare—you'll go on -suspecting all sorts of impossible things—you'll worry yourself to -death over nothing—and as for me—well, whenever I go out -alone I shall wonder if you're following a few hundred yards behind!" -</p> -<p> -Then she said, still with the same tragic brooding quietness: "You -needn't fear, Kenneth. I'll never follow you. I didn't follow you -to-night. I only said I did. I found out what I wanted to find out just -as well by that, didn't I?" -</p> -<p> -He was dazed. He had never guessed that she could be so diabolically -clever. He sank into a chair and shut his eyes, unable to speak. She -went on, without the slightest inflexion in the maddening level of her -voice: "I'm going to leave you, Kenneth. You want Clare, and I'm going -to leave you to her. I won't have you when you want another woman." -</p> -<p> -He buried his head in his hands and muttered, in a voice husky with -sobbing: "That's not true, Helen. I don't want Clare. I don't want any -other woman. I only want you, Helen. Helen, you won't leave me, will -you? Promise me you won't leave me, Helen. Helen, don't you—can't you -believe me when I tell you I don't want Clare?" -</p> -<p> -Still she reiterated, like some curious, solemn litany: "I'm going to -leave you, Kenneth. You don't really want me. It's Clare you want, not -me. You'll be far happier with Clare. And I shall be far happier without -you than with you when you're wanting Clare. I—I can't bear you to -want Clare, Kenneth. I'd rather you—have her—than want her. So -I've decided. I'm not angry with you. I'm just determined, that's all. I -shall leave you and then you'll be free to do what you like." -</p> -<p> -Somehow, a feeling of overwhelming tiredness overspread him, so that for -a short moment he felt almost inclined to acquiesce from mere lack of -energy to do anything else. He felt sick as he stared at her. Then a -curiously detached aloofness came into his attitude; he looked down on -the situation a trifle cynically and thought: How dramatic! Something in -him wanted to laugh, and something else in him wanted to cry; most of -him wanted to kiss her and be comfortable and go to sleep; and nothing -at all of him wanted to argue. He wondered just then if such a moment -ever came to her as it came to him; a moment when he could have borne -philosophically almost any blow, when all human issues seemed engulfed -in the passionate desire to be let alone. -</p> -<p> -Yet some part of him that was automatic continued the argument. He -pleaded with her, assured her of his deep and true love, poured infinite -scorn on Clare and his relations with her, held up to view a rosy future -at Lavery's in which he would live with Helen as in one long, idyllic -dream. And as he sketched out this beautiful picture, his mind was -ironically invaded by another one, which he did not show her, but which -he felt to be more true: Lavery's in deep winter-time, with the wind and -rain howling round the walls of it, and the bleak shivering corridors, -and the desolation of the afternoons, and the cramped hostility of the -Masters' Common-Room, and the red-tinted drawing-room at night, all full -of shadows and silence and tragic monotony. And all the time he was -picturing that in his mind he was telling her of Lavery's with the sun -on it, and the jessamine, and the classrooms all full of the sunlit air, -and love, like a queen, reigning over it all. The vision forced itself -out; Helen saw it, but Speed could not. As he went on pleading with her -he became enthusiastic, but it was an artistic enthusiasm; he was -captivated by his own skill in persuasion. And whenever, for a moment, -this interest in his own artistry waned, there came on him afresh the -feeling of deep weariness, and a desire only to rest and sleep and be -friends with everybody. -</p> -<p> -At last he persuaded her. It had taken from nine o'clock until midnight. -He was utterly tired out when he had finished. Yet there seemed to be no -tiredness in her, only a happiness that she could now take and caress -him as her own. She could not understand how, now that they had made -their reconciliation, he should not be eager to cement it by -endearments. Instead of which he lit a cigarette and said that he was -hungry. -</p> -<p> -While she busied herself preparing a small meal he found himself -watching her continually as she moved about the room, and wondering, in -the calmest and most aloof manner, whether he was really glad that he -had won. Eventually he decided that he was. She was his wife and he -loved her. If they were careful to avoid misunderstandings no doubt they -would get along tolerably well in the future. The future! The vision -came to him again of the term that was in front of him; a vision that -was somehow frightening. -</p> -<p> -Yet, above all else, he was tired—dead tired. -</p> -<p> -The last thing she said to him that night was a soft, half-whimpered: -"Kenneth, I believe you do want Clare." -</p> -<p> -He said sleepily, and without any fervour: "My dear, I assure you I -don't." -</p> -<p> -And he fell asleep wondering very vaguely what it would be like to want -Clare, and whether it would ever be possible for him to do so. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - - -<h4>CHAPTER TWO -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -Term began on the Wednesday in the third week in January. -</p> -<p> -Once again, the first few days were something of an ordeal. Constant -anticipations had filled Speed's mind with apprehensions; he was full of -carefully excogitated glooms. Would the hostility of the Masters be more -venomous? Would the prefects of his own house attempt to undermine his -discipline? Would the rank and file try to "rag" him when he took -preparation in the Big Hall? Somehow, all his dreams of Millstead and of -Lavery's had turned now to fears; he had slipped into the position when -it would satisfy him merely to avoid danger and crush hostility. No -dreams now about Lavery's being the finest House in Millstead, and he -the glorious and resplendent captain of it; no vision now of scouring -away the litter of mild corruptions and abuses that hedged in Lavery's -on all sides; no hopes of a new world, made clean and wholesome by his -own influence upon it. All his desire was that he should escape the -pitfalls that were surrounding him, that he should, somehow, live -through the future without disaster to himself. Enthusiasm was all gone. -Those old days when he had plunged zestfully into all manner of new -things, up to his neck in happiness as well as in mistakes—those days -were over. His one aim now was not to make mistakes, and though he did -not know it, he cared for little else in the world. -</p> -<p> -That first night of term he played the beginning-of-term hymn in the -chapel. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"Lord, behold us with Thy blessing,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Once again assembled here ..."</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -The words fell on his mind with a sense of heavy, unsurmountable gloom. -He looked into the mirror above his head and saw the choir-stalls and -the front rows of the pews; the curious gathering of Millsteadians in -their not-yet-discarded vacation finery; Millsteadians unwontedly sober; -some, perhaps, a little heart-sick. He saw Ervine's back, as he read the -lesson from the lectern, and as he afterwards stood to pronounce the -Benediction. "The grace of God, which passeth—um—understanding, -and the—um—fellowship of the—um—the Holy -Spirit ..." -</p> -<p> -He hated that man. -</p> -<p> -He thought of the dark study and Potter and the drawing-room where he -and Helen had spent so many foolish hours during the summer term of the -year before. -</p> -<p> -<i>Foolish</i> hours? Had he come to the point when he looked back with -scorn upon his courtship days? No, no; he withdrew the word "foolish." -</p> -<p> -" ... rest upon—um—all our hearts—now -and—um—for ever—um—Ah—men.... I -would—um, yes—be glad—if -the—um—the—the new boys this term—would stay -behind to see me—um, yes—to see me for a moment...." -</p> -<p> -Yes, he hated that man. -</p> -<p> -He gathered his gown round him and descended the ladder into the vestry. -A little boy said "Good-evening, Mr. Speed," and shook hands with him. -"Good-evening, Robinson," he said, rather quietly. The boy went on: "I -hope you had a nice Christmas, sir." Speed started, checked himself, and -replied: "Oh yes, very nice, thanks. And you too, I hope." "Oh yes, -sir," answered the boy. When he had gone Speed wondered if the whole -incident had been a subtle and ironical form of "ragging." Cogitation -convinced him that it couldn't have been; yet fear, always watching and -ready to pounce, would have made him think so. He felt really alarmed as -he walked back across the quadrangle to Lavery's, alarmed, not about the -Robinson incident, which he could see was perfectly innocent, but -because he was so prone to these awful and ridiculous fears. If he went -on suspecting where there was no cause, and imagining where there was no -reality, some day Millstead would drive him mad. <i>Mad</i>—yes, -<i>mad</i>. Two boys ran past him quickly and he could see that they -stopped afterwards to stare at him and to hold some sort of a colloquy. -What was that for? Was there anything peculiar about him? He felt to see -if his gown was on wrong side out: no, that was all right. Then what did -they stop for? Then he realised that he was actually speaking that -sentence out aloud; he had said, as to some corporeal companion: <i>What -did they stop for</i>? Had he been gibbering like that all the way -across the quadrangle? Had the two boys heard him talking about going -mad? Good God, he hoped not! That would be terrible, terrible. He went -in to Lavery's with the sweat standing out in globes on his forehead. -And yet, underfoot, the ground was beginning to be hard with frost. -</p> -<p> -Well, anyway, one thing was comforting; he was getting along much better -with Helen. They had not had any of those dreadful, pathetic scenes for -over a fortnight. His dreams of happiness were gone; it was enough if he -succeeded in staving off the misery. As he entered the drawing-room -Helen ran forward to meet him and kissed him fervently. "The first night -of our new term," she said, but the mention only gave a leap to his -anxieties. But he returned her embrace, willing to extract what -satisfaction he could from mere physical passion. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -An hour later he was dining in the Masters' Common-Room. He would have -avoided the ordeal but for the unwritten law which ordained that even -the housemasters should be present on the first night of term. Not that -there was anything ceremonial about the proceedings. Nothing happened -that did not always happen, except the handshaking and the disposition -to talk more volubly than usual. Potter arched his long mottled neck in -between each pair of diners in exactly the same manner as heretofore; -there was the same unchanged menu of vegetable soup, undercooked meat, -and a very small tart on a very large plate. -</p> -<p> -But to Speed it seemed indeed as if everything was changed. The room -seemed different; seemed darker, gloomier, more chronically -insufferable; Potter's sibilant, cat-like stealthiness took on a degree -of sinisterness that made Speed long to fight him and knock him down, -soup-plates and all; the food tasted reminiscently of all the vaguely -uncomfortable things he had ever known. But it was in the faces of the -men around him that he detected the greatest change of all. He thought -they were all hating him. He caught their eyes glancing upon him -malevolently; he thought that when they spoke to him it was with some -subtle desire to insult him; he thought also, that when they were silent -it was because they were ignoring him deliberately. The mild distaste he -had had for some of them, right from the time of first meeting, now -flamed up into the most virulent and venomous of hatreds. And even -Clanwell, whom he had always liked exceedingly, he suspected ever so -slightly at first, though in a little while he liked him as much as -ever, and more perhaps, because he liked the others so little. -</p> -<p> -Pritchard he detested. Pritchard enquired about his holiday, how and -where he had spent it, and whether he had had a good time; also if Mrs. -Speed were quite well, and how had she liked the visit to Beachings -Over. Somehow, the news had spread that he had taken Helen to spend -Christmas at his parents' house. He wondered in what way, but felt too -angry to enquire. Pritchard's questions stung him to silent, bottled-up -fury; he answered in monosyllables. -</p> -<p> -"Friend Speed has the air of a thoughtful man," remarked Ransome in his -oblique, half-sarcastic way. And Speed smiled at this, not because it -amused him at all, but because Ransome possessed personality which -submerged to some extent his own. -</p> -<p> -Finally, when Clanwell asked him up to coffee he declined, courteously, -but with a touch of unboyish reserve which he had never previously -exhibited in his relations with Clanwell. "I've got such a lot of work -at Lavery's," he pleaded. "Another night, Clanwell...." -</p> -<p> -And as he walked across the quadrangle at half-past eight he heard again -those curious sounds that had thrilled him so often before, those sounds -that told him that Millstead had come to life again. The tall blocks of -Milner's and Lavery's were cliffs of yellow brillance, from which great -slanting shafts of light fell away to form a patchwork on the -quadrangle. He heard again the chorus of voices in the dormitories, the -tinkle of crockery in the basement studies, the swish of water into the -baths, the babel of miscellaneous busyness. He saw faces peering out of -the high windows, and heard voices calling to one another across the -dark gulf between the two houses. It did not thrill him now, or rather, -it did not thrill him with the beauty of it; it was a thrill of terror, -if a thrill at all, which came to him. And he climbed up the flight of -steps that led to the main door of Lavery's and was almost afraid to -ring the bell of his own house. -</p> -<p> -Burton came, shambling along with his unhappy feet and -beaming—positively beaming—because it was the beginning of the -term. -</p> -<p> -"Once again, sir," he said, mouthing, as he admitted Speed. He jangled -his huge keys in his hand as if he were a stage jailer in a stage -prison. "I don't like the 'ockey term myself, sir, but I'd rather have -any term than the 'olidays." -</p> -<p> -"Yes," said Speed, rather curtly. -</p> -<p> -There were several jobs he had to do. Some of them he could postpone for -a day, or perhaps, even for a few days, if he liked, but there was no -advantage in doing so, and besides, he would feel easier when they were -all done. First, he had to deliver a little pastoral lecture to the new -boys. Then he had to chat with the prefects, old and new—rather an -ordeal that. Then he had to patrol the dormitories and see that -everything was in proper order. Then he had to take and give receipts -for money which anybody might wish to "bank" with him. Then he had to -give Burton orders about the morning. Then he had to muster a roll-call -and enquire about those who had not arrived. Then, at ten-thirty, he had -to see that all lights were out and the community settled in its beds -for slumber.... -</p> -<p> -All of which he accomplished automatically. He told the new boys, in a -little speech that was meant to be facetious, that the one unforgivable -sin at Lavery's was to pour tea-leaves down the waste-pipes of the -baths. He told the prefects, in a voice that was harsh because it was -nervous, that he hoped they would all co-operate with him for the good -of the House. He told Burton, quite tonelessly, to ring the bell in the -dormitories at seven-thirty, and to have breakfast ready in his -sitting-room at eight. And he went round the dormitories at half-past -ten, turning out gases and delivering brusque good-nights. -</p> -<p> -Then he went downstairs into the drawing-room of his own house where -Helen was. He went in smiling. Helen was silent, but he knew from -experience that silence with her did not necessarily betoken -unhappiness. Yet even so, he found such silences always unnerving. -To-night he wanted, if she had been in the mood, to laugh, to be jolly, -to bludgeon away his fears. He would not have minded getting slightly -drunk.... But she was silent, brooding, no doubt, happily, but with a -sadness that was part of her happiness. -</p> -<p> -As he passed by the table in the dimly-lit room he knocked over the -large cash-box full of the monies that the boys had banked with him. It -fell on to the floor with a crash which made all the wires in the piano -vibrate. -</p> -<p> -"Aren't you careless?" said Helen, quietly, looking round at him. -</p> -<p> -He looked at her, then at the cash-box on the floor, and said finally: -"Damn it all! A bit of noise won't harm us. This isn't a funeral." -</p> -<p> -He said it sharply, exasperated, as if he were just trivially enraged. -After he had said it he stared at her, waiting for her to say something. -But she made no answer, and after a long pause he solemnly picked up the -cash-box. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -There came a January morning when he had a sudden and almost intolerable -longing to see Clare. The temperature was below freezing-point, although -the sun was shining out of a clear sky; and he was taking five -<i>alpha</i> in art drawing in a room in which the temperature, by means -of the steamiest of hot-water pipes, had been raised to sixty. His desk -was at the side of a second-floor window, and as he looked out of it he -could see the frost still white on the quadrangle and the housemaids -pouring hot water and ashes on the slippery cloister-steps. He had, -first of all, an urgent desire to be outside in the keen, crisp air, -away from the fugginess of heated class-rooms; then faintly-heard trot -of horses along the Millstead lane set up in him a restlessness that -grew as the hands of his watch slid round to the hour of dismissal. It -was a half-holiday in the afternoon, and he decided to walk up to -Dinglay Fen, taking with him his skates, in case the ice should be thick -enough. The thought of it, cramped up in a stuffy class-room, was a -sufficiently disturbing one. And then, quite suddenly, there came into -his longing for the fresh air and the freedom of the world a secondary -longing—faint at first, and then afterwards stormily -insurgent—a longing for Clare to be with him on his adventures. -That was all. He just wanted her company, the tread of her feet -alongside his on the fenland roads, her answers to his questions, and -her questions for him to answer. It was a strange want, it seemed to -him, but a harmless one; and he saw no danger in it. -</p> -<p> -Dismissal-hour arrived, and by that time he was in a curious ferment of -desire. Moreover, his brain had sought out and discovered a piece of -casuistry suitable for his purpose. Had not Clare, on the occasion of -his last visit to her, told him plainly and perhaps significantly that -she would never tell anyone of his visit? And if she would not tell of -that one, why should she of <i>any one</i>—any one he might care to -make in the future? And as his only reason for not visiting her was a -desire to please Helen, surely that end was served just as easily if he did -visit her, provided that Helen did not know. There could be no moral -iniquity in lying to Helen in order to save her from unhappiness, and -anyway, a lie to her was at least as honest as her subterfuge had been -in order to learn from him of his last visit. On all sides, therefore, he -was able to fortify himself for the execution of his desire. -</p> -<p> -But, said Caution, it would be silly to see her in the daytime, and -out-of-doors, for then they would run the risk of being seen together by -some of the Millstead boys, or the masters, and the affair would pretty -soon come to Helen's ears, along channels that would by no means -minimise it in transmission. Hence again, the necessity to see Clare in -the evenings, and at her house, as before. And at the thought of her -cosy little upstairs sitting-room, with the books and the Persian rugs -and the softly-shaded lamp, he kindled to a new and exquisite -anticipation. -</p> -<p> -So, then, he would go up to Dinglay Fen alone that afternoon, wanting -Clare's company, no doubt, but willing to wait for it happily now that -it was to come to him so soon. Nor did he think that there was anything -especially Machiavellian in the plans he had decided upon. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -But he saw her sooner than that evening. -</p> -<p> -Towards midday the clouds suddenly wrapped up the sky and there began a -tremendous snowstorm that lasted most of the afternoon and prevented the -hockey matches. All hope of skating was thus dispelled, and Speed spent -the afternoon in the drawing-room at Lavery's, combining the marking of -exercise-books with the joyous anticipation of the evening. Then, -towards four o'clock, the sky cleared as suddenly as it had clouded -over, and a red sun shone obliquely over the white and trackless -quadrangle. There was a peculiar brightness that came into the room -through the window that overlooked the snow; a strange unwonted -brightness that kindled a tremulous desire in his heart, a desire -delicate and exquisite, a desire without command in it, but with a -fragile, haunting lure that was more irresistible than command. As he -stood by the window and saw the ethereal radiance of the snow, golden -almost in the rays of the low-hanging sun, he felt that he would -like to walk across the white meadows to Parminters. He wanted -something—something that was not in Millstead, something that, -perhaps, was not in the world. -</p> -<p> -He set out, walking briskly, facing the crisp wind till the tears came -into his eyes and rolled down his cold cheeks. Far beyond old Millstead -spire the sun was already sinking into the snow, and all the sky of the -west was shot with streams of pendulous fire. The stalks of the tallest -grasses were clotted with snow which the sun had tried hard to melt and -was now leaving to freeze stiff and crystalline; as the twilight crept -over the earth the wind blew colder and the film of snow lately fallen -made the path over the meadows hard and slippery with ice. -</p> -<p> -Then it was that he met Clare; in the middle of the meadows between -Millstead and Parminters, at twilight amidst a waste of untrod snow. Her -face was wonderfully lit with the reflection of the fading whiteness, -that his mind reacted to it as to the sudden brink was in her eyes. -</p> -<p> -He felt himself growing suddenly pale; he stopped, silent, without a -smile, as if frozen stiff by the sight of her. -</p> -<p> -And she said, half laughing: "Hello, Mr. Speed! You look unusually -grim...." Then she paused, and added in a different voice: "No—on -further observation I think you look ill.... Tell me, what's the -matter?" -</p> -<p> -He knew then that he loved her. -</p> -<p> -The revelation came on him so sharply, so acidly, with such overwhelming -and uncompromising directness, that his mind reacted to it as to the -sudden brink of a chasm. He saw the vast danger of his position. He saw -the stupendous fool he had been. He saw, as if some mighty veil had been -pulled aside, the stream of tragedy sweeping him on to destruction. And -he stopped short, all the manhood in him galvanised into instant -determination. -</p> -<p> -He replied, smiling: "I'm <i>feeling</i> perfectly well, anyway. Beautiful -after the snowstorm, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -It was so clear, so ominously clear that she would stop to talk to him -if he would let her. -</p> -<p> -Therefore he said, curtly: "I'm afraid it's spoilt all the chances of -skating, though.... Pity, isn't it? Well, I won't keep you in the -cold—one needs to walk briskly and keep on walking, doesn't one? Good -night!" -</p> -<p> -"Good night," she said simply. -</p> -<p> -Through the fast gathering twilight they went their several ways. When he -reached Parminters it was quite dark. He went to the <i>Green Man</i> and -had tea in the cosy little firelit inn-parlour with a huge Airedale dog -for company. Somehow, he felt happier, now that he knew the truth and -was facing it. And by the time he reached Lavery's on the way home he -was treating the affair almost jauntily. After all, there was a very -simple and certain cure for even the most serious attack of the ailment -which he had diagnosed himself as possessing. He must not see Clare -again. Never again. No, not even once. How seriously he was taking -himself, he thought. Then he laughed, and wondered how he had been so -absurd. For it was absurd, incredibly absurd, to suppose himself even -remotely in love with Clare! It was unthinkable, impossible, no more to -be feared than the collapse of the top storey of Lavery's into the -basement. He was a fool, a stupid, self-analysing, self-suspecting fool. -He entered Lavery's scorning himself very thoroughly, as much for his -cowardly decision not to see Clare again as for his baseless suspicion -that he was growing fond of her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THREE -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -Why was it that whenever he had had any painful scene with Helen the -yearning came over him to go and visit Clare, not to complain or to -confess or to ask advice, but merely to talk on the most ordinary topics -in the world? It was as if Helen drew out of him all the strength and -vitality he possessed, leaving him debilitated, and that he craved the -renewal of himself that came from Clare and from Clare alone. -</p> -<p> -The painful scenes came oftener now. They were not quarrels; they were -worse; they were strange, aching, devitalising dialogues in which Helen -cried passionately and worked herself into a state of nervous emotion -that dragged Speed against his will into the hopeless vortex. Often when -he was tired after the day's work the mere fervour of her passion would -kindle in him some poignant emotion, some wrung-out pity, that was, as -it were, the last shred of his soul; when he had burned that to please -her he was nothing but dry ashes, desiring only tranquillity. But her -emotional resources seemed inexhaustible. And when she had scorched up -the last combustible fragment of him there was nothing left for him to -do but to act a part. -</p> -<p> -When he realised that he was acting he realised also that he had been -acting for a long while; indeed, that he could not remember when he had -begun to act. Somehow, she lured him to it; made insatiable demands upon -him that could not be satisfied without it. His acting had become almost -a real part of him; he caught himself saying and doing things which came -quite spontaneously, even though they were false. The trait of artistry -in him made him not merely an actor but an accomplished actor; but the -strain of it was immense. And sometimes, when he was alone, he wished -that he might some time break under it, so that she might find out the -utmost truth. -</p> -<p> -Still, of course, it was Clare that was worrying her. She kept insisting -that he wanted Clare more than he wanted her, and he kept denying it, -and she obviously liked to hear him denying it, although she kept -refusing to believe him. And as a simple denial would never satisfy her, -he had perforce to elaborate his denials, until they were not so much -denials as elaborately protestant speeches in which energetically -expressed affection for her was combined with subtle disparagement of -Clare. As time went on her demands increased, and the kind of denial -that would have satisfied her a fortnight before was no longer -sufficient to pacify her for a moment. He would say, passionately: "My -little darling Helen, all I want is you—why do you keep talking about -Clare? I'm tired of hearing the name. It's Helen I want, my old darling -Helen." He became eloquent in this kind of speech. -</p> -<p> -But sometimes, in the midst of his acting an awful, hollow moment of -derision would come over him; a moment when he secretly addressed -himself: You hypocrite. You don't mean a word of all this! Why do you -say it? What good is it if it pleases her if it isn't true? Can -you—are you prepared to endure these nightly exhibitions of -extempore play-acting for ever? Mustn't the end come some day, and what -is to be gained by the postponement of it? -</p> -<p> -Then the hollow, dreadful, moment would leave him, and he would reply in -defence of himself: I love Helen, although the continual protestation of -it is naturally wearisome. If she can only get rid of the obsession -about Clare we shall live happily and without this emotional ferment. -Therefore, it is best that I should help her to get rid of it as much as -I can. And if I were to protest my love for her weakly I should hinder -and not help her. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes, after he had been disparaging Clare, a touch of real vibrant -emotion would make him feel ashamed of himself. And then, in a few -sharp, anguished sentences he would undo all the good that hours of -argument and protestation had achieved. He would suddenly defend Clare, -wantonly, obtusely, stupidly aware all the time of the work he was -undoing, yet, somehow, incapable of stopping the words that came into -his mouth. And they were not eloquent words; they were halting, -diffident, often rather silly. "Clare's all right," he would say -sometimes, and refuse to amplify or qualify. "I don't know why we keep -dragging her in so much. She's never done us any harm and I've nothing -against her." -</p> -<p> -"So. You love her." -</p> -<p> -"Love her? Rubbish! I don't love her. But I don't <i>hate</i> -her—surely you don't expect me to do that!" -</p> -<p> -"No, I don't expect you to do that. I expect you to marry her, though, -some day." -</p> -<p> -"Marry her! Good God, what madness you talk, Helen! I don't want to -marry her, and if I did she wouldn't want to marry me! And besides, it -happens that I'm already married. That's an obstacle, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"There's such a thing as divorce." -</p> -<p> -"You can't get a divorce just because you want one." -</p> -<p> -"I know that." -</p> -<p> -"And besides, my dear Helen, who wants a divorce? Do you?" -</p> -<p> -"Do <i>you</i>?" -</p> -<p> -"Of course I don't." -</p> -<p> -"Kenneth, I know it seems to you that I'm terribly unreasonable. But it -isn't any satisfaction to me that you just don't <i>see</i> Clare. What I -want is that you shan't want to see her." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I don't want to see her." -</p> -<p> -"That's a lie." -</p> -<p> -"Well—well—what's the good of me telling you I don't want to -see her if you can't believe me?" -</p> -<p> -"No good at all, Kenneth. That's why it's so awful." -</p> -<p> -He said then, genuinely: "Is it very awful, Helen?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. You don't know what it's like to feel that all the time one's -happiness in the world is hanging by a thread. Kenneth, all the time I'm -watching you I can see Clare written in your mind. I <i>know</i> you -want her. I know she can give you heaps that I can't give you. I know -that our marriage, was a tragic mistake. We're not suited to one -another. We make each other frightfully, frightfully miserable. More -miserable than there's any reason for, but still, that doesn't help. -We're misfits, somehow, and though we try ever so hard we shall never be -any better until we grow old and are too tired for love any more. Then -we shall be too disinterested to worry. It was <i>my</i> fault, -Kenneth—I oughtn't to have married you. Father wanted me to, -because your people have a lot of money, but I only married you because -I loved you, Kenneth. It was silly of me, Kenneth, but it's the truth!" -</p> -<p> -"Ah!" So the mystery was solved. He softened to her now that he heard -her simple confession; he felt that he loved her, after all. -</p> -<p> -She went on, sadly: "I'm not going to stay with you, Kenneth. I'm not -going to ruin your life. You won't be able to keep me. I'd rather you be -happy and not have anything to do with me." -</p> -<p> -Then he began one of his persuasive speeches. The beginning of it was -sincere, but as he used up all the genuine emotion that was in him, he -drew more and more on his merely histrionic capacities. He pleaded, he -argued, he implored. Once the awful thought came to him: Supposing I -cried? Doubt as to his capacity to cry impressively decided him against -the suggestion.... And once the more awful thought came to him: -Supposing one of these times I do not succeed in patching things up? -Supposing we do agree to separate? Do I really want to win all the time -I am wrestling so hard for victory? -</p> -<p> -And at the finish, when he had succeeded once again, and when she was -ready for all the passionate endearments that he was too tired to take -pleasure in giving, he felt: This cannot last. It is killing me. It is -killing her too. God help us both.... -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -One day he realised that he was a failure. He had had some disciplinary -trouble with the fifth form and had woefully lost his temper. There had -followed a mild sort of scene; within an hour it had been noised all -over the school, so that he knew what the boys and Masters were thinking -of when they looked at him. It was then that the revelation of failure -came upon him. -</p> -<p> -But, worst of all, there grew in him wild and ungovernable hates. He -hated the Head, he hated Pritchard, he hated Smallwood, he hated, most -intensely of all, perhaps, Burton. Burton was too familiar. Not that -Speed disliked familiarity; it was rather that in Burton's familiarity -he always diagnosed contempt. He wished Burton would leave. He was -getting too old. -</p> -<p> -They had a stupid little row about some trivial affair of house -discipline. Speed had found some Juniors playing hockey along the long -basement corridor. True that they were using only tennis balls; -nevertheless it seemed to Speed the sort of thing that had to be -stopped. He was not aware that "basement hockey" was a time-honoured -custom of Lavery's, and that occasional broken panes of glass were paid -for by means of a "whip round." If he had known that he would have made -no interference, for he was anxious not to make enemies. But it seemed -to him that this extempore hockey-playing was a mere breach of ordinary -discipline; accordingly he forbade it and gave a slight punishment to -the participators. -</p> -<p> -Back in his room there came to him within a little while, Burton, -eagerly solicitous about something or other. -</p> -<p> -"Well, what is it, Burton?" The mere sight of the shambling old fellow -enraged Speed now. -</p> -<p> -"If you'll excuse the libutty, sir. I've come on be'alf of a few of the -Juniors you spoke to about the basement 'ockey, sir." -</p> -<p> -"I don't see what business it is of yours, Burton." -</p> -<p> -"No, sir, it ain't any business of mine, that's true, but I thought -perhaps you'd listen to me. In fact, I thought maybe you didn't know -that it was an old 'ouse custom, sir, durin' the 'ockey term. I bin at -Millstead fifty-one year come next July, sir, an' I never remember an -'ockey term without it, sir. Old Mr. Hardacre used to allow it, an' so -did Mr. Lavery 'imself. In fact, some evenings, sir, Mr. Lavery used to -come down an' watch it, sir." -</p> -<p> -Speed went quite white with anger. He was furiously annoyed with himself -for having again trod on one of these dangerous places; he was also -furious with Burton for presuming to tell him his business. Also, a -slight scuffle outside the door of the room suggested to him that Burton -was a hired emissary of the Juniors, and that the latter were -eavesdropping at that very moment. He could not give way. -</p> -<p> -"I don't know why you think I should be so interested in the habits of -my predecessors, Burton," he said, with carefully controlled voice. "I'm -sure it doesn't matter to me in the least what Hardacre and Lavery used -to do. I'm housemaster at present, and if I say there must be no more -basement hockey then there must be no more. That's plain, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, sir, I was only warning you—" -</p> -<p> -"Thanks, I don't require warning. You take too much on yourself, -Burton." -</p> -<p> -The old man went suddenly red. Speed was not prepared for the suddenness -of it. Burton exclaimed, hardly coherent in the midst of his -indignation: "That's the first time I've bin spoke to like that by a -housemaster of Lavery's! Fifty years I've bin 'ere an' neither Mr. -Hardacre nor Mr. Lavery ever insulted me to my face! They were -gentlemen, they were!" -</p> -<p> -"Get out!" said Speed, rising from his chair quickly. "Get out of here! -You're damnably impertinent! Get out!" -</p> -<p> -He approached Burton and Burton did not move. He struck Burton very -lightly on the shoulder. The old man stumbled against the side of the -table and then fell heavily on to the floor. Speed was passionately -frightened. He wondered for the moment if Burton were dead. Then Burton -began to groan. Simultaneously the door opened and a party of Juniors -entered, ostensibly to make some enquiry or other, but really, as Speed -could see, to find out what was happening. -</p> -<p> -"What d'you want?" said Speed, turning on them. "I didn't tell you to -come in. Why didn't you knock?" -</p> -<p> -They had the answer ready. "We did knock, sir, and then we heard a noise -as if somebody had fallen down and we thought you might be ill, sir." -</p> -<p> -Burton by this time had picked himself up and was shambling out of the -room, rather lame in one leg. -</p> -<p> -The days that followed were not easy ones for Speed. He knew he had been -wrong. He ought never to have touched Burton. People were saying "Fancy -hitting an old man over sixty!" Burton had told everybody about it. The -Common-Room knew of it. The school doctor knew of it, because Burton had -been up to the Sick-room to have a bruise on his leg attended. Helen -knew of it, and Helen rather obviously sided with Burton. -</p> -<p> -"You shouldn't have hit an old man," she said. -</p> -<p> -"I know I shouldn't," replied Speed. "I lost my temper. But can't you -see the provocation I had? Am I to put up with a man's impertinence -merely because he's old?" -</p> -<p> -"You're getting hard, Kenneth. You used to be kind to people, but you're -not kind now. You're <i>never</i> kind now." -</p> -<p> -In his own heart he had to admit that it was true. He had given up being -kind. He was hard, ruthless, unmerciful, and God knew why, perhaps. Yet -it was all outside, he hoped. Surely he was not hard through and -through; surely the old Speed who was kind and gentle and whom everybody -liked, surely this old self of his was still there, underneath the -hardness that had come upon him lately! -</p> -<p> -He said bitterly: "Yes, I'm getting hard, Helen. It's true. And I don't -know the reason." -</p> -<p> -She supplied the answer instantly. "It's because of me," she said -quietly. "I'm making you hard. I'm no good for you. You ought to have -married somebody else." -</p> -<p> -"No, no!" he protested, vehemently. Then the old routine of argument, -protest, persuasion, and reconciliation took place again. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -He made up his mind that he would crush the hardness in him, that he -would be the old Speed once more. All his troubles, so it seemed to him, -were the result of being no longer the old Speed. If he could only bring -to life again that old self, perhaps, after sufficient penance, he could -start afresh. He could start afresh with Lavery's, he could start afresh -with Helen; most of all perhaps, he could start afresh with himself. He -<i>would</i> be kind. He would be the secret, inward man he wanted to be, -and not the half-bullying, half-cowardly fellow that was the outside of -him. He prayed, if he had ever prayed in his life, that he might accomplish -the resuscitation. -</p> -<p> -It was a dark sombrely windy evening in February; a Sunday evening. He -had gone into chapel with all his newly-made desires and determinations -fresh upon him; he was longing for the quiet calm of the chapel service -that he might cement, so to say, his desires and resolutions into a -sufficiently-welded programme of conduct that should be put into -operation immediately. Raggs was playing the organ, so that he was able -to sit undisturbed in the Masters' pew. The night was magnificently -stormy; the wind shrieked continually around the chapel walls and roof; -sometimes he could hear the big elm trees creaking in the Head's garden. -The preacher was the Dean of some-where-or-other; but Speed did not -listen to a word of his sermon, excellent though it might have been. He -was too busy registering decisions. -</p> -<p> -The next day he apologized to Burton, rather curtly, because he knew not -any other way. The old man was mollified. Speed did not know what to say -to him after he had apologized; in the end half-a-sovereign passed -between them. -</p> -<p> -Then he summoned the whole House and announced equally curtly that he -wished to apologize for attempting to break a recognised House custom. -"I've called you all together just to make a short announcement. When I -stopped the basement hockey I was unaware that it had been a custom in -Lavery's for a long while. In those circumstances I shall allow it to go -on, and I apologize for the mistake. The punishments for those who took -part are remitted. That's all. You may go now." -</p> -<p> -With Helen it was not so easy. -</p> -<p> -He said to her, on the same night, when the house had gone up to its -dormitories: "Helen, I've been rather a brute lately. I'm sorry. I'm -going to be different." -</p> -<p> -She said: "I wish I could be different too." -</p> -<p> -"Different? <i>You</i> different? What do you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"I wish I could make you fond of me again." He was about to protest with -his usual eagerness and with more than his usual sincerity, but she held -up her hand to stop him. "Don't say anything!" she cried, passionately. -"We shall only argue. I don't want to argue any more. Don't say anything -at all, please, Kenneth!" -</p> -<p> -"But—Helen—why not?" -</p> -<p> -"Because there's nothing more to be said. Because I don't believe -anything that you tell me, and because I don't want to deceive myself -into thinking I do, any more." -</p> -<p> -"Helen!" -</p> -<p> -She went on staring silently into the fire, as usual, but when he came -near to her she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. "I don't -believe you love me, Kenneth. Goodness knows why I kiss you. I suppose -it's just because I like doing it, that's all. Now don't say anything to -me. Kiss me if you like, but don't speak. I hate you when you begin to -talk to me." -</p> -<p> -He laughed. -</p> -<p> -She turned on him angrily, suddenly like a tiger. "What are you laughing -at? I don't see any joke." -</p> -<p> -"Neither do I. But I wanted to laugh—for some reason. Oh, if I -mustn't talk to you, mayn't I even laugh? Is there nothing to be done -except kiss and be kissed?" -</p> -<p> -"You've started to talk. I hate you now." -</p> -<p> -"I shouldn't have begun to talk if you'd let me laugh." -</p> -<p> -"You're hateful." -</p> -<p> -"What—because I laughed? Don't you think it's rather funny that a man -may kiss his wife and yet not be allowed to talk to her?" -</p> -<p> -"I think it's tragic." -</p> -<p> -"Tragic things are usually funny if you're in the mood that I'm in." -</p> -<p> -"It's your own fault that you're in such a hateful mood." -</p> -<p> -"Is it my fault? I wasn't in the mood when I came into this room." -</p> -<p> -"Then it's my fault, I presume?" -</p> -<p> -"I didn't say so. God knows whose fault it is. But does it matter very -much?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I think it does." -</p> -<p> -He couldn't think of anything to say. He felt all the strength and -eagerness and determination and hope for the future go out of him and -leave him aching and empty. And into the void—not against his will, -for his will did not exist at the time—came Clare. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -Once again he knew that he loved her. A storm came over him, furious as -the storm outside! he knew that he loved and wanted her, passionately -this time, because his soul was aching. To him she meant the easing of -all the strain within him; he could not think how it had been possible -for him to go on so long without knowing it. Helen and he were like -currents of different voltages; but with Clare he would be miraculously -matched. For the first time in his life he recognised definitely and -simply that his marriage with Helen had been a mistake. -</p> -<p> -But what could he do? For with the realisation of his love for Clare -came the sudden, blinding onrush of pity for Helen, pity more terrible -than he had ever felt before; pity that made him sick with the keenness -of it. If he could only be ruthless and leave her with as few words and -as little explanation as many men left their wives! But he could not. -Somehow, in some secret and subtle way, he was tied to her. He knew that -he could never leave her. Something in their intimate relationship had -forged bonds that would always hold him to her, even though the spirit -of him longed to be free. He would go on living with her and pitying her -and making her and himself miserable. -</p> -<p> -He went out into the storm of wind for a few moments before going to -bed. Never, till then, had Lavery's seemed to desolate, so mightily -cruel. He walked in sheer morbidness of spirit to the pavilion steps -where he and Helen, less than a year ago, had thought themselves the -happiest couple in the world. There was no moonlight now, and the -pavilion was a huge dark shadow. Poor Helen—<i>poor</i> Helen! He -wished he had never met her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FOUR -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -The torture of his soul went on. He lost grip of his House; he was -unpopular now, and he knew it. Smallwood and other influential members -of the school openly cut him in the street. A great silence (so he often -imagined, but it could not have been really so) fell upon the Masters' -Common-Room whenever he entered it. Pritchard, so he heard, was in the -habit of making cheap jokes against him with his class. Even Clanwell -took him aside one evening and asked him why he had dropped the habit of -coming up to coffee. "Why don't you come up for a chat sometime?" he -asked, and from the queer look in his eyes Speed knew well enough what -the chat was likely to be about. "Oh, I'm busy," he excused himself. He -added: "Perhaps I'll drop in sometime, though." "Yes, do," said Clanwell -encouragingly. But Speed never did. -</p> -<p> -Then one morning Speed was summoned into the dark study. The Head smiled -and invited him to sit down. He even said, with ominous hospitality: -"Have a cigarette—um, no?" and pushed the cigarette-box an inch or -so away from him. Then he went on, unbuttoning the top button -of his clerical coat: "I hope—um—you will not think -me—um—impertinent—if I mention a matter which -has—um—which has not reached my ears—um—through -an official channel. You had, I—um—I -believe,—an—um—altercation with one of the -house-porters the other day. Am I—am I right?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, quite right." -</p> -<p> -"Well, now, Mr. Speed—such—um—affairs are rather -undignified, don't you think? I'm not—um—apportioning -blame—oh, no, not in any way, but I do—um, yes—I most -certainly do think that a housemaster should avoid such incidents if he -can possibly do so. No—um—no personal reflection on you at -all, Mr. Speed—merely my advice to you, as a somewhat elderly man -to an—um, yes—to a friend. Yes, a friend. Perhaps I might -add more—um—significantly—to -an—um—son-in-law." -</p> -<p> -He smiled a wide, sly smile. Speed clenched his hands on his knees. The -dark study grew almost intolerable. He felt he would like to take -Ervine's mottled neck in his hands and wring it—carefully and -calculatingly.... -</p> -<p> -When he was outside the room, in the darkness between the inner and the -outer doors, his resentment rose to fever-pitch. He stopped, battling -with it, half inclined to re-enter the study and make a scene, yet -realising with the sane part of him that he could not better his -position by so doing. Merely as an outlet for tempestuous indignation, -however, the idea of returning to the fray attracted him, and he paused -in the darkness, arguing with himself. Then all at once his attention -was rivetted by the sound, sharp and clear, of Mrs. Ervine's voice. She -had entered the study from the other door, and he heard soft steps -treading across the carpet. "Did you tell him?" he heard her say. And -the Head's voice boomed back: "Yes, my dear. Um yes—I told him." -</p> -<p> -A grim, cautious smile crept over Speed's mouth. He put his ear to the -hinge of the inner door and listened desperately. -</p> -<p> -He heard again the voice of Mrs. Ervine. "Did you tell him he might have -to quit Lavery's at the end of the term?" -</p> -<p> -"I—um—well—I didn't exactly put it to -him—so—um—so definitely. It seemed to me there was -no—um—no necessity. He may be all right, even yet, you know. -</p> -<p> -"He won't. He's too young. And he's lost too much ground already." -</p> -<p> -"I always thought he was too—um—too youthful, my dear. But you -overruled my——" -</p> -<p> -"Well, and you know why I did, don't you? Oh, I've no patience with you. -Nothing's done unless I do it." -</p> -<p> -"My dear, I—um—I assure you——" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -He heard footsteps approaching along the outside corridor and feared -that it might be people coming to see the Head. In that case they would -pull open the outer door and find him eavesdropping. That would never -do. He quietly pushed the outer door and emerged into the corridor. A -small boy, seeing him, asked timidly: "Is the Head in, sir?" Speed -replied grimly: "Yes, he's in, but he's busy at present." -</p> -<p> -After all, he had heard enough. Behind the Head, ponderous and archaic, -stood now the sinister figure of Mrs. Ervine, mistress of malevolent -intrigue. In a curious half-humorous, half-contemptuous sense, he felt -sorry for the Head. Poor devil!—everlastingly chained to Millstead, -always working the solemn, rhythmic treadmill, with a wife beside him as -sharp as a knife-edge.... Speed walked across to Lavery's, pale-faced -and smiling. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -The Annual Athletic Sports. -</p> -<p> -It was raining hard. He stood by the tape, stopwatch in hand, -distributing measured encouragement and congratulation, and fulfilling -his allotted rôle of timekeeper. "Well run, Herbert," he managed to say -with a show of interest. "Not bad, indeed, sir ... eleven and two-fifths -seconds." ... "Well done, Roberts.... Hard luck, Hearnshaw—pity you -didn't sprint harder at the finish, eh? ... Herbert first, Roberts -second, Hearnshaw third." -</p> -<p> -The grass oozed with water and the cinder-track with blackish slime; he -shivered as he stood, and whenever he stooped the water fell over the -brim of his hat and blurred the print on his sports-programme. It was -hard to distinguish rain from perspiration on the faces of the runners. -The bicycles used in the slow-bicycle race lay in a dripping and rusting -pile against a tree-trunk; crystal raindrops hung despairingly from the -out-stretched tape. There seemed something unnecessarily, gratuitously, -even fatuously dismal about the entire procedure; the weight of dismalness -pressed heavily on him—heavily—heavily—and more heavily -as the afternoon crawled by. Yet he gave a ghastly smile as he marked a wet -note-book with a wet copying pencil and exclaimed: "Well run, Lister -<i>Secundus</i>. Four minutes and forty-two and a fifth seconds.... Next -race, please. All candidates for the Quarter-Mile Handicap. First -Heat.... Answer please.... Arnold, Asplin, Brooks, Carmichael, -Cavendish, Cawstone, Primus, Felling, Fyfield...." -</p> -<p> -But at last there came the end of the dreary afternoon, when grey dusk -began to fall somberly upon a grey world, when the last race had been -mournfully held, and his outdoor work was over. Mechanically he was -collecting into a pile the various impedimenta of the obstacle race; he -was alone, for the small, dripping crowd of sight-seers had gone over to -the other side of the pavilion to witness the putting of the weight. -Pritchard's job, he reflected. Pritchard's staccato tenor voice rose -above the murmur: "Thirty-eight feet four inches.... Excellent, -Robbins...." And then the scrape of the spade smoothing over the soft, -displaced mud, a sound that seemed to Speed to strike the note of utter -and inextinguishable misery. -</p> -<p> -Old Millstead bells began to chime the hour of five o'clock. -</p> -<p> -And then a voice quite near him said: "Well, Mr. Speed?" -</p> -<p> -He knew that voice. He turned round sharply. Clare! -</p> -<p> -Never did he forget the look of her at that moment. He thought -afterwards (though it could not have been more than imagination) that as -she spoke the downfalling rain increased to a torrent; he saw her -cheeks, pink and shining, and the water glistening on the edges of her -hair. She wore a long mackintosh that reached almost to her heels, and a -sou'wester pulled over her ears and forehead. But the poise of her as -she stood, so exquisitely serene with the rain beating down upon her, -struck some secret chord in his being which till that moment had been -dumb. -</p> -<p> -He dropped the sacks into a pool of water and stared at her in wistful -astonishment. -</p> -<p> -"You've dropped your things," she said. -</p> -<p> -He was staring at her so intently that he seemed hardly to comprehend -her words. The chord in him that had been struck hurt curiously, like a -muscle long unused. When at last his eyes fell to the sopping bundle at -his feet he just shrugged his shoulders and muttered: "Oh, <i>they</i> -don't matter. I'll leave them." Then, recollecting that he had not yet -given her any greeting, he made some conventional remark about the weather. -</p> -<p> -Then she made another conventional remark about the weather. -</p> -<p> -Then he said, curiously: "We don't see so much of each other nowadays, -do we?" -</p> -<p> -To which she replied: "No. I wonder why? Are they overworking you?" -</p> -<p> -"Not that," he answered. -</p> -<p> -"Then I won't guess any other reasons." -</p> -<p> -He said jokingly: "I shall come down to the town and give you another of -those surprise visits one of these evenings." -</p> -<p> -The crowd were returning from watching the putting of the weight. She -made to leave him, saying as she did so: "<i>Yes</i>, do. You like a talk, -don't you?" -</p> -<p> -"Rather!" he exclaimed, almost boyishly, as she went away. -</p> -<p> -<i>Almost boyishly</i>! Even a moment of her made a difference in him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -That evening, for the first time in his life, he was "ragged." He was -taking preparation in the Big Hall. As soon as the School began to enter -he could see that some mischief was on foot. Nor was it long in -beginning to show itself. Hardly had the last-corner taken his seat when -a significant rustle of laughter at the rear of the Hall warned him that -danger was near. He left his seat on the rostrum and plunged down the -aisle to the place whence the laughter had come. More laughter.... He -saw something scamper swiftly across the floor, amidst exclamations of -feigned alarm. Someone had let loose a mouse. -</p> -<p> -He was furious with anger. Nothing angered him more than any breach of -discipline, and this breach of discipline was obviously an insult to him -personally. They had never "ragged" him before; they were "ragging" him -now because they disliked him. He saw the faces of all around him -grinning maliciously. -</p> -<p> -"Anyone who laughs has a hundred lines." -</p> -<p> -A sharp brave laugh from somewhere—insolently defiant. -</p> -<p> -"Who was it that laughed then?" -</p> -<p> -No answer. -</p> -<p> -Then, amidst the silence, another laugh, a comic, lugubriously pitched -laugh that echoed weirdly up to the vaulted roof. -</p> -<p> -He was white now—quite white with passion. -</p> -<p> -"Was that you, Slingsby?" -</p> -<p> -A smart spot! It <i>was</i> Slingsby, and Slingsby, recognising the rules -of civilised warfare even against Speed, replied, rather sheepishly: "Yes, -sir." -</p> -<p> -"A thousand lines and detention for a week!" -</p> -<p> -The school gasped a little, for the punishment was sufficiently -enormous. Evidently Speed was not to be trifled with. There followed a -strained silence for over ten minutes, and at last Speed went back to -his official desk feeling that the worst was over and that he had -successfully quelled the rebellion. Then, quite suddenly, the whole -building was plunged into darkness. -</p> -<p> -He rose instantly shouting: "Who tampered with those switches?" -</p> -<p> -He had hardly finished his query when pandemonium began. Desk-lids fell; -electric torches prodded their rays upon scenes of wild confusion; a -splash of ink fell on his neck as he stood; voices shrieked at him on -all sides. "Who had a fight with Burton?" "Hit one your own size." "Oh, -Kenneth, meet me at the pavilion steps!" "Three cheers for the -housemaster who knocked the porter down!" He heard them all. Somebody -called, sincerely and without irony: "Three cheers for old -Burton!"—and these were lustily given. Somebody grabbed hold of -him by the leg; he kicked out vigorously, careless in his fury what harm -he did. The sickly odour of sulphuretted hydrogen began to pervade the -atmosphere. -</p> -<p> -He heard somebody shriek out: "Not so much noise, boys—the Head'll -come in!" And an answer came: "Well, he won't mind much." -</p> -<p> -He stood there in the darkness for what seemed an age. He was petrified, -not with fear, but with a strange mingling of fury and loathing. He -tried to speak, and found he had no voice; nor, anyhow, could he have -made himself heard above the din. -</p> -<p> -Something hit him a terrific blow on the forehead. He was dazed. He -staggered back, feeling for his senses. He wondered vaguely who had hit -him and what he had been hit with. Probably a heavy book.... The pain -seemed momentarily to quench his anger, so that he thought: This is not -ordinary "ragging." They hate me. They detest me. They want to hurt me -if they can.... He felt no anger for them now, only the dreadfulness of -being hated so much by so many people at once. -</p> -<p> -He must escape somehow. They might kill him in the dark there if they -found him. He suddenly made his decision and plunged headlong down the -centre aisle towards the door. How many boys he knocked down or trampled -on or struck with his swinging arms as he rushed past he never knew, but -in another moment he was outside, with the cool air of the cloisters -tingling across his bruised head and the pandemonium in the Hall -sounding suddenly distant in his ears. -</p> -<p> -In the cloisters he met the Head, walking quickly along with gown -flying in the wind. -</p> -<p> -In front of Speed he stopped, breathless and panting. -"Um—um—what is the matter, Mr. Speed? Such -an—um—terrible noise—I could—um—hear it at -my dinner-table—and—um—yourself—what has -happened to you? Are you ill? Your head is covered -with—um—blood.... What is all the commotion about?" -</p> -<p> -Speed said, with crisp clearness: "Go up into the Hall and find out." -</p> -<p> -And he rushed away from the Head, through the echoing cloisters, and -into Lavery's. He washed here, in the public basins, and tied a -handkerchief round the cut on his forehead. He did not disturb Helen, -but left his gown on one of the hooks in the cloak-room and went out -again into the dark and sheltering night, hatless and coatless, and with -fever in his heart. The night was bitterly cold, but he did not feel it; -he went into the town by devious ways, anxious to avoid being seen; when -he was about half-way the parish clock chimed eight. He felt his head; -his handkerchief was already damp on the outside; it must have been a -deep cut. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -"Mr. Speed!" she said, full of compassion. A tiny lamp in the corridor -illumined his bandaged head as he walked in. "What on earth has happened -to you? Can you walk up all right?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," he answered, with even a slight laugh. The very presence of her -gave him reassurance. He strode up the steps into the sitting-room and -stood in front of the fire. She followed him and stared at him for a -moment without speaking. Then she said, almost unconcernedly: "Now you -mustn't tell me anything till you've been examined. That looks rather a -deep cut. Now sit down in that chair and let me attend to you. Don't -talk." -</p> -<p> -He obeyed her, with a feeling in his heart of ridiculously childish -happiness. He remembered when Helen had once bade him not talk, and how -the demand had then irritated him. Curious that Clare could even copy -Helen exactly and yet be tremendously, vitally different! -</p> -<p> -She unwound the bandage, washed the cut, and bandaged it up again in a -clean and workmanlike manner. The deftness of her fingers fascinated -him; he gazed on them as they moved about over his face; he luxuriated -amongst them, as it were. -</p> -<p> -At the finish of the operation she gave that sharp instant laugh which, -even after hearing it only a few times, he had somehow thought -characteristic of her. "You needn't worry," she said quietly, and in the -half-mocking tone that was even more characteristic of her than her -laugh. "You're not going to die. Did you think you were? Now tell me how -it happened." -</p> -<p> -"You'll smile when I tell you. I was taking prep, and they ragged me. -Somebody switched off the lights and somebody else must have thrown a -book at me. That's all." -</p> -<p> -"That's all? It's enough, isn't it? And what made you think I should -smile at such an affair?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know. In a certain sense it's, perhaps, a little funny.... -D'you know, lately I've had a perfectly overwhelming desire to laugh at -things that other people wouldn't see anything funny in. The other night -Helen told me not to talk to her because she couldn't believe a word I -said, but she didn't mind if I kissed her. I laughed at that—I -couldn't help it. And now, when I think of an hour ago with all the -noise and commotion and flash-lights and stink-bombs and showers of -ink—oh, God, it was damned funny!" -</p> -<p> -He burst into gusts of tempestuous, half-hysterical laughter. -</p> -<p> -"Stop laughing!" she ordered. She added quietly: "Yes, you look as if -you've been in an ink-storm—it's all over your coat and collar. What -made them rag you?" -</p> -<p> -"They hate me." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" -</p> -<p> -He pondered, made suddenly serious, and then said: "God knows." -</p> -<p> -She did not answer for some time. Then she suddenly went over to the -china cupboard and began taking out crockery. Once again his eyes had -something to rivet themselves upon; this time her small, immensely -capable hands as she busied herself with the coffee-pot. "And you -thought I should find it amusing?" she said, moving about the whole -time. As she continued with the preparations she kept up a running -conversation. "Well, I <i>don't</i> find it amusing. I think it's very -serious. You came here last summer term and at first you were well -liked, fairly successful, and happy. Now, two terms later, you're -apparently detested, unsuccessful, and—well, not so happy as you -were, eh? What's been the cause of it all? You say God knows. Well, if He -does know, He won't tell you, so you may as well try to find out for -yourself." -</p> -<p> -And she went on: "I don't want to rub it in. Forgive me if I am doing -so." -</p> -<p> -Something in the calm kindliness of her voice made him suddenly bury his -head in his hands and begin to sob. He gasped, brokenly: "All right.... -Clare.... But the future.... Oh, God—is it <i>all</i> black? ... -What—<i>what</i> can I do, Clare?" -</p> -<p> -She replied, immensely practical: "You must control yourself. You're -hysterical—laughing one minute and crying the next. Coffee will be -ready in a while—it'll quiet your nerves. And the future will be all -right if only you won't be as big a fool as you have been." -</p> -<p> -Then he smiled. "You <i>do</i> tell me off, don't you?" he said. -</p> -<p> -"No more than you need.... But we're talking too much. I don't want you -to talk a lot—not just yet. Sit still while I play the piano to you." -</p> -<p> -She played some not very well-known composition of Bach, and though when -she began he was all impatience to talk to her, he found himself later -on becoming tranquil, perfectly content to listen to her as long as she -cared to go on. She played quite well, and with just that robust -unsentimentality which Bach required. He wondered if she had been clever -enough to know that her playing would tranquillise him. -</p> -<p> -When she had finished, the coffee was ready and they had a cosy little -armchair snack intermingled with conversation that reminded him of his -Cambridge days. He would have been perfectly happy if he had not been -burdened with such secrets. He wanted to tell her everything—to show -her all his life. And yet whenever he strove to begin the confession she -twisted the conversation very deftly out of his reach. -</p> -<p> -At last he said: "I've got whole heaps to tell you, Clare. Why don't you -let me begin?" -</p> -<p> -She looked ever so slightly uncomfortable. -</p> -<p> -"Do you <i>really</i> want to begin?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"Begin then." -</p> -<p> -But it was not so easy for him to begin after her straightforward order -to do so. She kept her brown eyes fixed unswervingly on him the whole -time, as if defying him to tell anything but the utterest truth. He -paused, stammered, and then laughed uncomfortably. -</p> -<p> -"There's a lot to tell you, and it's not easy." -</p> -<p> -"Then don't trouble. I'm not asking you to." -</p> -<p> -"But I want to." -</p> -<p> -She said, averting her eyes from him for a moment: "It's not really that -you want to begin yourself, it's that you want <i>me</i> to begin, isn't -it?" -</p> -<p> -Then he said: "Yes, I wanted you to begin if you would. I wanted you to -ask me a question you used to ask me?" -</p> -<p> -"What's that?" -</p> -<p> -"Whether I'm happy ... or not. I always used to say yes, and since that -answer has become untrue you've never asked me the question." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps because I knew the answer had become untrue." -</p> -<p> -"You knew? You <i>knew</i>! Tell me, what did you know? What do you know -now?" -</p> -<p> -She said, with a curious change in the quality of her voice: "My dear -man, I <i>know</i>. I understand you. Haven't you found out that? I know, -I've known for a long time that you haven't been happy." -</p> -<p> -Suddenly he was in the thick of confession to her. He was saying, almost -wildly, in his eagerness: "Helen and I—we don't get on well -together." Then he stopped, and a wild, ecstatic fear of what he was -doing rose suddenly to panic-point and then was lulled away by Clare's -eternally calm eyes. "She doesn't understand me—in fact—I -don't really think we either of us understand the other." -</p> -<p> -"No?" she said, interrogatively, and he shook his head slowly and -replied: "I think that perhaps explains—chiefly—why I am -unhappy. We—Helen and I—we don't know quite what—what -to do with each other. Do you know what I mean? We don't exactly -quarrel. It's more that we try so hard to be kind that—that it -hurts us. We are cruel to each other.... Oh, not actually, you know, but -in a sort of secret inside way.... Oh, Clare, Clare, the truth of it is, -I can't bear her, and she can't bear me!" -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps I know what you mean. But she loves you?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, she loves me." -</p> -<p> -"And you love her?" -</p> -<p> -He looked her straight in the eyes and slowly shook his head. -</p> -<p> -"I used to. But I don't now. It's awful—awful—but it's the -honest truth." -</p> -<p> -It seemed to him that his confession had reached the vital crest and -that all else would be easy and natural now that he had achieved thus -far. He went on: "Clare, I've tried to make myself think I love her. -I've tried all methods to be happy with her. I've given in to her in -little matters and big matters to try to make her happy, I've isolated -myself from other people just to please her, I've offered -anything—<i>everything</i> to give her the chance of making me love -her as I used to! But it's not been a bit of use." -</p> -<p> -"Of course it hasn't." -</p> -<p> -"Why of course?" -</p> -<p> -"Because you can't love anybody by trying. Any more than you can stop -loving anybody by trying... Do you know, I've never met anybody who's -enraged me as much as you have." -</p> -<p> -"Enraged you?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. What right have I to be enraged with you, you'll say, but never -mind that. I've been enraged with you because you've been such a -continual disappointment ever since I've known you. This is a time for -straight talking, isn't it? So don't be offended. When you first came to -Millstead you were just a jolly schoolboy—nothing more, though you -probably thought you were—you were brimful of schoolboyish ideals -and schoolboyish enthusiasms. Weren't you? Nobody could help liking -you—you were so—so <i>nice</i>—<i>nice</i> is the -word, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"You're mocking me." -</p> -<p> -"Not at all. I mean it. You <i>were</i> nice, and I liked you very much. -Compared with the average fussily jaded Master at a public-school you -were all that was clean and hopeful and energetic. I wondered what would -become of you. I wondered whether you'd become a sarcastic devil like -Ransome, a vulgar little counter-jumper like Pritchard, or a beefy, -fighting parson like Clanwell. I knew that whatever happened you -wouldn't stay long as you were. But I never thought that you'd become -what you are. Good God, man, you <i>are</i> a failure, aren't you?" -</p> -<p> -"What's the good of rubbing it in?" -</p> -<p> -"This much good—that I want you to be quite certain of the depth -you've fallen to. A man of your sort soon forgets his mistakes. That's why -he makes so many of them twice over." -</p> -<p> -"Well—admitting that I am a failure, what then? What advice have you -to offer me?" -</p> -<p> -"I advise you to leave Millstead." -</p> -<p> -"When?" -</p> -<p> -"At the end of the term." -</p> -<p> -"And where shall I go?" -</p> -<p> -"Anywhere except to another school." -</p> -<p> -"What shall I do?" -</p> -<p> -"Anything except repeat your mistakes." -</p> -<p> -"And Helen?" -</p> -<p> -"Take her with you." -</p> -<p> -"But she is one of my mistakes." -</p> -<p> -"I know that. But you've got to put up with it." -</p> -<p> -"And if I can't?" -</p> -<p> -"Then I don't know." -</p> -<p> -He suddenly plunged his head into his hands and was silent. Her ruthless -summing-up of the situation calmed him, made him ready for the future, -but filled that future with a dreariness that was awful to contemplate. -</p> -<p> -After a while he rose, saying: "Well, I suppose you're right. I'll go -back now. God knows what'll happen to me between now and the end of -term. But I guess I'll manage somehow. Anyway, I'm much obliged for your -first-aid. Good-bye—don't trouble to let me out—I know how the -door works." -</p> -<p> -"I want to lock up after you're gone," she said. -</p> -<p> -In the dark lobby the sudden terror of what he had done fell on him like -a crushing weight. He had told Clare that he did not love Helen. And -then, following upon that, came a new and more urgent terror—he -had not told Clare that it was she whom he loved. What was the use of -telling her the one secret without the other?—Perhaps he would -never see Clare again. This might be his last chance. If he did not take -it or make it the torture of his self-reproaching would be unendurable. -</p> -<p> -"You came without any coat and hat," she observed. "Let me lend you my -raincoat—it's no different from a man's." -</p> -<p> -He perceived instantly that if he borrowed it he would have an excuse -for visiting her again in order to return it. And perhaps then, more -easily than now, he could tell her the secret that was almost bursting -his heart. -</p> -<p> -"Thanks," he said, gratefully, and as she helped him into the coat she -said: "Ask the boy to bring it back here when he calls for the orders in -the morning." -</p> -<p> -He could have cried at her saying that. The terror came on him -feverishly, intolerably, the terror of leaving her, of living the rest -of life without a sight or a knowledge of her. He could not bear it; the -longing was too great—he could not put it away from him. And she was -near him for the last time, her hands upon his arms as she helped him -into the coat. She did not want him to call again. It was quite plain. -</p> -<p> -He had to speak. -</p> -<p> -He said, almost at the front door: "Clare, do you know the real reason -why I don't love Helen any more?" -</p> -<p> -He thought he heard her catch her breath sharply. Then, after a pause, -she said rather curtly: "Yes, of course I do. Don't tell me." -</p> -<p> -"What!" In the darkness he was suddenly alive. "<i>What</i>! You know! You -know the real reason! You <i>don't</i>! You think you do, but you don't! -I'll warrant you don't! You don't know everything!" -</p> -<p> -And the calm voice answered: "I know everything about you." -</p> -<p> -"You don't know that I love you!" (<i>There</i>! It was spoken now; a great -weight was taken off his heart, no matter whether she should be annoyed -or not! His heart beat wildly in exultation at having thrown off its -secret at long last.) -</p> -<p> -She answered: "Yes, I know that. But I didn't want you to tell me." -</p> -<p> -And he was amazed. His mind, half stupefied, accepted her knowledge of -his love for her almost as if it were a confession of her returned love -for him. It was as if the door were suddenly opened to everything he had -not dared to think of hitherto. He knew then that his mind was full of -dreaming of her, wild, passionate, tumultuous dreaming, dreaming that -lured him to the edge of wonderland and precarious adventure. But this -dreaming was unique in his experience; no slothful half-pathetic basking -in the fluency of his imagination, no easy inclination to people a world -with his own fancies rather than bridge the gulf that separated himself -from the true objectiveness of others; this was something new and -immense, a hungering of his soul for reality, a stirring of the depths -in him, a monstrous leaping renewal of his youth. No longer was his -imagination content to describe futile, sensual curves within the abyss -of his own self, returning cloyingly to its starting-point; it soared -now, embarked on a new quest, took leave of self entirely, drew him, -invisibly and incalculably, he knew not where. He knew not where, but he -knew with whom.... This strange, magnetic power that she possessed over -him drew him not merely to herself, but to the very fountain of life; -she was life, and he had never known life before. The reach of his soul -to hers was the kindling touch of two immensities, something at once -frantic and serene, simple and subtle, solemn and yet deep with -immeasurable heart-stirring laughter. -</p> -<p> -He said, half inarticulate: "What, Clare! You know that I love you?" -</p> -<p> -"Of course I do." -</p> -<p> -(Great God, what <i>was</i> this thrill that was coming over him, this -tremendous, invincible longing, this molten restlessness, this yearning -for zest in life, for action, starry enthusiasm, resistless plunging -movement!) -</p> -<p> -"And you don't mind?" -</p> -<p> -"I <i>do</i> mind. That's why I didn't want you to tell me. -</p> -<p> -"But what difference has telling you made, if you knew already?" -</p> -<p> -"No difference to me. But it will to you. You'll love me more now that -you know I know." -</p> -<p> -"Shall I?" His query was like a child's. -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"How do you know?" -</p> -<p> -"I <i>know</i>. That's all." -</p> -<p> -They were standing there together in the dark lobby. His heart was -wildly beating, and hers—he wondered if it were as calm as her -voice. And then all suddenly he felt her arms upon him, and she, -Clare—Clare!—the reticent, always controlled -Clare!—was crying, actually crying in his arms that stupidly, -clumsily held her. And Clare's voice, unlike anything that it had ever -been in his hearing before, was talking—talking and crying at -once—accomplishing the most curious and un-Clare-like feats. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, my dear, <i>dear</i> man—<i>why</i> did you tell me? Why did -you make everything so hard for me and yourself?—Oh, God—let -me be weak for just one little minute—only one little -minute!—I love you, Kenneth Speed, just as you love me—we -fit, don't we, as if the world had been made for us as well as we for -ourselves! Oh, what a man <i>I</i> could have made of you, and what a -woman <i>you</i> could have made of me! Dearest, I'm so sorry.... When -you've gone I shall curse myself for all this.... Oh, my dear, my -dear...." She sobbed passionately against his breast, and then, suddenly -escaping from his arms, began to speak in a voice more like her usual -one. "You must go now. There's nothing we can do. Please, <i>please</i> -go now. No, no—don't kiss me.... Just go.... And let's forgive -each other for this scene.... Go, please go.... Good-night.... No, I -won't listen to you.... I want you to go.... Good night.... You haven't -said a word, I know, and I don't want you to. There's nothing to say at -all. Good night.... Good night...." -</p> -<p> -He found himself outside in High Street as in some strange -incomprehensible dream.... -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FIVE -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -All the way back to Millstead joy was raging in his heart, trampling -down all his woes and defying him to be miserable. Nothing in the -world—not his unhappiness with Helen, or the hatred that Millstead -had for him, or the perfidy of his own soul—could drive out that -crowning, overmastering triumph—the knowledge that Clare loved -him. For the moment he saw no difficulties, no dangers, no future that -he could not easily bear. Even if he were never to see Clare again, he -felt that the knowledge that she loved him would be an adequate solace -to his mind for ever. He was happy—deliriously, eternally happy. -Helen's silences, the school's ragging, the Head's sinister coldness, -were bereft of all their powers to hurt him; he had a secret armour, -proof against all assault. It seemed to him that he could understand how -the early Christians, fortified by some such inward armour, had walked -calm-eyed and happy into the arena of lions. -</p> -<p> -He did not go straight back to the school, but took a detour along the -Deepersdale road; he wanted to think, and hug his happiness, and -eventually calm it before seeing Helen. Then he wondered what sort of an -explanation he should give her of his absence; for, of course, she would -have received by this time full accounts of the ragging. In the end he -decided that he had better pretend to have been knocked a little silly -by the blow on his head and to have taken a walk into the country -without any proper consciousness of what he was doing. -</p> -<p> -He returned to Lavery's about eleven o'clock, admitting himself by his -own private key. In the corridor leading to his own rooms, Helen -suddenly ran into his arms imploring him to tell her if he was hurt, -where he had been, what had happened, and so on. -</p> -<p> -He said, speaking as though he had hardly recovered full possession of -his senses: "I—I don't know.... Something hit me.... I think I've -been walking about for a long time.... I'm all right now, though." -</p> -<p> -Her hands were feeling the bandages round his head. -</p> -<p> -"Who bandaged you?" -</p> -<p> -"I—I don't—I don't know." (After all, 'I don't know' was always -a safe answer.) -</p> -<p> -She led him into the red-tinted drawing-room. As he entered it he -suddenly felt the onrush of depression, as if, once within these four -walls, half the strength of his armour would be gone. -</p> -<p> -"We must have Howard to see you to-morrow morning," she said, her voice -trembling. "It was absolutely disgraceful! I could hear them from -here—I wondered whatever was happening." And she added, with just the -suspicion of tartness: "I'd no idea you'd ever let them rag you like -that." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Let</i> them rag me?" he exclaimed. Then, remembering his part, he -stammered: "I—I don't know what—what happened. -Something—somebody perhaps—hit me, I think—that was -all. It wasn't—it wasn't the ragging. I could have—managed -that." -</p> -<p> -Suddenly she said: "Whose mackintosh is that you're wearing?" -</p> -<p> -The tone of her voice was sharp, acrid, almost venomous. -</p> -<p> -He started, felt himself blushing, but hoped that in the reddish glow it -would not be observed. "I—I don't know," he stammered, still playing -for safety. -</p> -<p> -"You don't know?—Then we'll find out if we can. Perhaps there's a -name inside it." -</p> -<p> -She helped him off with it, and he, hoping devoutly that there might not -be a name inside it, watched her fascinatedly. He saw her examine the -inside of the collar and then throw the coat on the floor. -</p> -<p> -"So you've been there again," was all that she said. Once again he -replied, maddeningly: "I—I don't know." -</p> -<p> -She almost screamed at him: "Don't keep telling me you don't know! -You're not ill—there's nothing the matter with you at -all—you're just pretending! You couldn't keep order in the Big -Hall, so you ran away like a great coward and went to <i>that</i> woman! -Did you or didn't you? Answer me!" -</p> -<p> -Never before, he reflected, had she quarrelled so shrilly and -rancorously; hitherto she had been restrained and rather pathetic, but -now she was shouting at him like a fishwife. It was a common domestic -bicker; the sort of thing that gets a good laugh on the music-hall -stage. No dignity in it—just sordid heaped-up abuse. "Great -coward"—"<i>That</i> woman"—! -</p> -<p> -He dropped his lost-memory pose, careless, now, whether she found out or -not. -</p> -<p> -"I <i>did</i> go to Clare," he said, curtly. "And that's Clare's raincoat. -Also Clare bandaged me—rather well, you must admit. Also, I've drunk -Clare's coffee and warmed myself at Clare's fire. Is there any other -confession you'd like to wring out of me?" -</p> -<p> -"Is there indeed? You know that best yourself." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps you think I've been flirting with Clare?" -</p> -<p> -(As he said it he thought: Good God, why am I saying such things? It's -only making the position worse for us both.) -</p> -<p> -"I've no doubt she would if you'd given her half a chance." -</p> -<p> -The bitterness of her increased his own. -</p> -<p> -"Or is it that <i>I</i> would if she'd given me half a chance? Are you -quite <i>sure</i> which?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm sure of nothing where either of you are concerned. As for Clare, -she's been a traitor. Right from the time of first meeting you she's -played a double game, deceiving me and yourself as well. She's ruined -our lives together, she's spoilt our happiness and she won't be -satisfied till she's wrecked us both completely. I detest her—I -loathe her—I loathe her more than I've ever loathed anybody in the -world. Thank God I know her <i>now</i>—at least <i>I</i> shall -never trust her any more. And if <i>you</i> do, perhaps some day you'll -pay as I've paid. Do you think she's playing straight with you any more -than she has with me? Do you think <i>you</i> can trust her? Are you -taken in?" -</p> -<p> -The note of savage scorn in her voice made him reply coldly: "You've no -cause to talk about taking people in. If ever I've been taken in, as you -call it, it was by you, not by Clare!" -</p> -<p> -He saw her go suddenly white. He was half-sorry he had dealt her the -blow, but as she went on to speak, her words, fiercer than ever now, -stung him into gladness. -</p> -<p> -"All right! Trust her and pay for it! I could tell you things if I -wished—but I'm not such a traitor to her as she's been to me. I could -tell you things that would make you gasp, you wretched little fool!" -</p> -<p> -"They wouldn't make me gasp; they'd make me call you a damned liar. -Helen, I can understand you hating Clare; I can understand, in a sense, -the charge of traitor that you bring against her; but when you hint all -sorts of awful secrets about her I just think what a petty, spiteful -heart you must have! You ruin your own case by actions like that. They -sicken me." -</p> -<p> -"Very well, let them sicken you. You'll not be more sickened than I am. -But perhaps you think I can't do more than hint. I can and I will, since -you drive me to it. Next time you pay your evening visits to Clare ask -her what she thinks of Pritchard!" -</p> -<p> -"Pritchard! Pritchard!—What's he got to do with it?" -</p> -<p> -"Ask Clare." -</p> -<p> -"Why should I ask her?" -</p> -<p> -"Because, maybe, on the spur of the moment she wouldn't be able to think -of any satisfactory lie to tell you." -</p> -<p> -He felt anger rising up within him. He detested Pritchard, and the -mention of his name in connection with Clare infuriated him. Moreover, -his mind, always quick to entertain suspicion, pictured all manner of -disturbing fancies, even though his reason rejected them absolutely. He -trusted Clare; he would believe no evil of her. And yet, the mere -thought of it was a disturbing one. -</p> -<p> -"I wouldn't insult her by letting her think I listened to such gossip," -he said, rather weakly. -</p> -<p> -There followed a longish pause; he thinking of what she had said and -trying to rid himself of the discomfort of associating Pritchard with -Clare, and she watching him, mockingly, as if conscious that her words -had taken root in his mind. -</p> -<p> -Then she went on: "So now you can suspect somebody else instead of me. -And while we're on the subject of Pritchard let me tell you something -else." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Tell me</i>!" The mere thought that there was anything else to tell in -which Pritchard was concerned was sufficient to give his voice a note of -peremptory harshness. -</p> -<p> -"I'm going to leave you." -</p> -<p> -"So you've said before." -</p> -<p> -"This time I mean it." -</p> -<p> -"Well?" -</p> -<p> -"And you can divorce me." -</p> -<p> -He stamped his foot with irritation. "Don't be ridiculous, Helen. A -divorce is absolutely out of the question." -</p> -<p> -"Why? Do you think we can go on like this any longer?" -</p> -<p> -"That's not the point. The point is that nothing in the circumstances -provides any grounds for a divorce." -</p> -<p> -"So that we've got to go on like this then, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"Not like this, I hope. I <i>still</i> hope—that some day—" -</p> -<p> -She interrupted him angrily. "You <i>still</i> hope! How many more secret -visits to Clare do you think you'll make,—how many more damnable lies -do you think you'll need to tell me—before you leave off still -hoping? You hateful little hypocrite! Why don't you be frank with me and -yourself and acknowledge that you love Clare? Why don't you run off with -her like a man?" -</p> -<p> -He said: "So you think that's what a man would do, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"One sort of a man, perhaps. Only I'm not that sort." -</p> -<p> -"I wish you were." -</p> -<p> -"Possibly. I also wish that you were another sort of woman, but it's -rather pointless wishing, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"Everything is rather pointless that has to do with you and me." -</p> -<p> -Suddenly he said: "Look here, Helen. Let's stop this talk. Just listen a -minute while I try to tell you how I'm situated. You and I are -married—" -</p> -<p> -"Really?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, for God's sake, don't be stupid about it! We're married, and we've -got to put up with it for better, for worse. I visit Clare in an -entirely friendly way, though you mayn't believe it, and your suspicions -of me are altogether unfounded. All the same, I'm prepared to give up -her friendship, if that helps you at all. I'm prepared to leave -Millstead with you, get a job somewhere else, and start life afresh. We -have been happy together, and I daresay in time we shall manage to be -happy again. We'd emigrate, if you liked. And the baby—<i>our</i> -baby—our baby that is to be—" -</p> -<p> -She suddenly rushed up to him with her arms raised and struck him with -both fists on his mouth. "Oh, for Christ's sake, stop that sort of talk! -I could kill you when you try to lull me into happiness with those sticky, -little sentimental words! <i>Our</i> baby! Good God, am I to be made -to submit to you because of that? And all the time you talk of it you're -thinking of another woman! You're not livable with! Something's happened -to you that's made you cruel and hateful—you're not the man that I -married or that I ever would have married. I loathe and detest -you—you're rotten—rotten to the very root!" -</p> -<p> -He said, idly: "Do you think so?" -</p> -<p> -She replied, more restrainedly: "I've never met anybody who's altered so -much as you have in the last six months. You've sunk lower and -lower—in every way, until now—everybody hates you. You're -simply a ruin." -</p> -<p> -Still quietly he said: "Yes, that's true." And then watching to see the -effect that his words had upon her, he added: "Clare said so." -</p> -<p> -"What!" she screamed, frenzied again. "Yes, <i>she</i> knows! <i>She</i> -knows how she's ruined you! She knows better than anybody! And she taunted -you with it! How I loathe her!" -</p> -<p> -"And me too, eh?" -</p> -<p> -She made no answer. -</p> -<p> -Then, more quietly than ever, he said: "Yes, Clare knows what a failure -I've been and how low I've sunk. But she doesn't think it's due to her, -and neither do I." -</p> -<p> -He would not say more than that. He wondered if she would perceive the -subtle innuendo which he half-meant and half did not mean; which he -would not absolutely deny, and yet would not positively affirm; which he -was prepared to hint, but only vaguely, because he was not perfectly -sure himself. -</p> -<p> -Whether or not she did perceive it he was not able to discover. She was -silent for some while and then said: "Well, I repeat what I said—I'm -going to leave you so that you can get a divorce." -</p> -<p> -He shrugged his shoulders. -</p> -<p> -"You can leave me if you wish, but I shall not get a divorce." -</p> -<p> -"Why not?" -</p> -<p> -"Because for one thing I shan't be able to." -</p> -<p> -"And why do you think you won't?" -</p> -<p> -"Because," he replied, coldly, "the law will not give me my freedom -merely because we have lived a cat-and-dog life together. The law -requires that you should not only leave me, but that you should run away -with another man and commit misconduct with him." -</p> -<p> -She nodded. "Yes, and that is what I propose to do." -</p> -<p> -"<i>What</i>!" -</p> -<p> -A curious silence ensued. He was utterly astounded, horrified, by her -announcement; she was smiling at him, mocking his astonishment. He -shouted at her, fiercely: "What's that!" -</p> -<p> -She said: "I intend to do what you said." -</p> -<p> -"What's that! You <i>what</i>?" -</p> -<p> -"I intend to do what you said. I shall run away with another man and -commit misconduct with him!" -</p> -<p> -"God!" he exclaimed, clenching his teeth, and stamping the floor. "It's -absurd. You can't. You wouldn't dare. Oh, it's impossible. -Besides—good God, think of the scandals! Surely I haven't driven -you to <i>that</i>! Who would you run away with?" His anger began to -conquer his astonishment. "You little fool, Helen, you can't do it! I -forbid you! Oh, Lord, what a mess we're in! Tell me, who's the man -you're thinking of! I demand to know. Who is he? Give me his name!" -</p> -<p> -And she said, cuttingly: "Pritchard." -</p> -<p> -On top of his boiling fury she added: "We've talked it over and he's -quite agreed to—to oblige me in the matter, so you see I really do -mean things this time, darling Kenneth!" -</p> -<p> -And she laughed at him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -Out of Lavery's he plunged and into the cold, frosty night of Milner's. -He had not stayed to hear the last echoes of her laughter dying away; he -was mad with fury; he was going to kill Pritchard. He ran up the steps -of Milner's and gave the bell a ferocious tug. At last the porter came, -half undressed, and by no means too affable to such a late visitor. "I -want to see Mr. Pritchard on very important business," said Speed. "Will -it take long, sir?" asked the porter, and Speed answered: "I can't say -how long it will take."—"Then," said the porter, "perhaps you -wouldn't mind letting yourself out when you've finished. I'll give you -this key till to-morrow morning—I've got a duplicate of my own." -Speed took the key, hardly comprehending the instructions, and rushed -along the corridor to the flight of steps along the wall of which was -printed the name: "Mr. H. Pritchard." -</p> -<p> -Arrived on Pritchard's landing he groped his way to the sitting-room -door and entered stealthily. All was perfectly still, except for one or -two detached snores proceeding from the adjoining dormitory. In the -starshine that came through the window he could see, just faintly, the -outline of Pritchard's desk, and Pritchard's armchair, and Pritchard's -bookshelves, and Pritchard's cap and gown hung upon the hook on the door -of Pritchard's bedroom. <i>His</i> bedroom! He crept towards it, turned the -handle softly, and entered. At first he thought the bed was empty, but -as he listened he could hear breathing—steady, though faint. He began -to be ever so slightly frightened. Being in the room alone with -Pritchard asleep was somehow an unnerving experience; like being alone -in a room with a dead body. For, perhaps, Pritchard would be a dead body -before the dawn rose. And again he felt frightened because somebody -might hear him and come up and think he was in there to steal -something—Pritchard's silver wrist-watch or his rolled gold sleeve -links, for instance. Somehow Speed was unwilling to be apprehended for -theft when his real object was only murder. -</p> -<p> -He struck a match to see if it really was Pritchard in bed; it would be -a joke if he murdered somebody else by mistake, wouldn't it? ... -</p> -<p> -Yes, it was Pritchard. -</p> -<p> -Then Speed, looking down at him, realised that he did not hate him so -much for his disgraceful overtures to Helen as for the suspicion of some -sinister connection with Clare. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly Pritchard opened his eyes. -</p> -<p> -"Good God, Speed!" he cried, blinking and sitting up in bed. "Whatever's -the matter! What's—what's happened? Anything wrong?" -</p> -<p> -And Speed, startled out of his wits by the sudden awakening, fell -forward across Pritchard's bed and fainted. -</p> -<p> -So that he did not murder Pritchard after all.... -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Vague years seemed to pass by, and then out of the abyss came -the voice of the Head booming: "Um, yes, Mr. Speed ... I think, -in the circumstances, you had better—um, yes, take a -holiday at the seaside.... You are very clearly in a highly -dangerous—um—nervous state ... and I will gladly release you -from the rest of your term's duties.... No doubt a rest will effect a -great and rapid improvement.... My wife recommends Seacliffe—a -pleasant little watering-place—um, yes, extremely so.... As for -the incidents during preparation last evening, I think we need -not—um—discuss them at present.... Oh yes, most -certainly—as soon as convenient—in fact, an early train -to-morrow morning would not incommode us.... I—um, yes—I -hope the rest will benefit you ... oh yes, I hope so extremely...." -</p> -<p> -And he added: "Helen is—um—a good nurse." -</p> -<p> -Then something else of no particular importance, and then: "I shall put -Mr.—um—Pritchard in charge of—um—Lavery's while you -are absent, so you need not—um—worry about your House...." -</p> -<p> -Speed said, conquering himself enough to smile: "Oh, no, I shan't worry. -I shan't worry about anything." -</p> -<p> -"Um—no, I hope not. I—I hope not.... My wife and -I—um—we both hope that you will not—um—worry...." -</p> -<p> -Then Speed noticed, with childish curiosity, that the Head was attired -in a sky-blue dressing-gown and pink-striped pyjamas.... -</p> -<p> -Where was he, by the way? He looked round and saw a tiny gas-jet burning -on a wall bracket; near him was a bed ... Pritchard's bed, of course. -But why was the Head in Pritchard's bedroom, and why was Clanwell there -as well? -</p> -<p> -Clanwell said sepulchrally: "Take things easy, old man. I thought -something like this would happen. You've been overdoing it." -</p> -<p> -"Overdoing what?" said Speed. -</p> -<p> -"Everything," replied Clanwell. -</p> -<p> -The clock on the dressing-table showed exactly midnight. -</p> -<p> -"Good-bye," said Speed. -</p> -<p> -Clanwell said: "I'm coming over with you to Lavery's." -</p> -<p> -The Head departed, booming his farewell. "Good night.... -My—um—my best wishes, Speed ... um, yes—most -certainly.... Good night." -</p> -<p> -Then Pritchard said: "Perhaps I can sleep again now. Enough to give me a -breakdown, I should think. Good-night, Speed. And good luck. I wish -they'd give <i>me</i> a holiday at Seacliffe.... Good night, Clanwell." -</p> -<p> -As they trod over the soft turf of the quadrangle they heard old -Millstead bells calling the hour of midnight. -</p> -<p> -Speed said: "Clanwell, do you remember I once told you I could write a -novel about Millstead?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I remember it." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I might have done it then. But I couldn't now. When I first came -here Millstead was so big and enveloping—it nearly swallowed me up. -But now—it's all gone. I might be living in a slum tenement for all -it means to me. Where's it all gone to?" -</p> -<p> -"You're ill, Speed. It'll come back when you're better." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but when shall I be better?" -</p> -<p> -"When you've been away and had a rest." -</p> -<p> -"Are you sure?" -</p> -<p> -"Of course I'm sure. You don't suppose you're dying, do you?" -</p> -<p> -"No. But there are times when I could suppose I'm dead." -</p> -<p> -"Nonsense, man. You're too morbid. Why don't you go for a sea voyage? -Pull yourself together, man, and don't brood." -</p> -<p> -Clanwell added: "I'm damned sorry for you—what can I do? Would you -like me to come in Lavery's with you for a while? You're not nervous of -being alone, are you?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh no. And besides, I shan't be alone. My wife's there." -</p> -<p> -"Of course, of course. Stupid of me. I was for the moment -forgetting—forgetting—" -</p> -<p> -"That I was married, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"No, no, not exactly—I had just forgotten—well, you know how -even the most obvious things sometimes slip the memory.... Well, here -you are. Have you the key? And you'll be all right, eh? Sure? Well, now, -take a long rest and get better, won't you? Good night—Good -night—sure you're all right? Good night!" -</p> -<p> -Clanwell raced back across the turf to his own House and Speed admitted -himself to Lavery's and sauntered slowly down the corridor to his room. -</p> -<p> -Helen was sitting in front of the fire, perfectly still and quiet. -</p> -<p> -He said: "Helen!" -</p> -<p> -"Well!" She spoke without the slightest movement of her head or body. -</p> -<p> -"We've got to go away from Millstead." -</p> -<p> -He wondered how she would take it. It never occurred to him that she was -prepared. She answered: "Yes. Mother's been over here to tell me all -about it. We're going to Seacliffe in the morning. Catching the 9.5. -What were you doing in Pritchard's bedroom?" -</p> -<p> -"Didn't they tell you?" he enquired sarcastically. -</p> -<p> -"How could they? They didn't know. They found you fainting across the -bed, and Pritchard said he woke up and found you staring at him." -</p> -<p> -"And you can't guess why I went there?" -</p> -<p> -"I suppose you wanted to ask him if it were true that he and I were -going away together." -</p> -<p> -"No, not quite. I wanted to murder him so that it could never be true." -</p> -<p> -"What!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. What I said." -</p> -<p> -She made no answer, and after a long pause he said: "You're not in love -with Pritchard, are you?" -</p> -<p> -She replied sorrowfully: "Not a little bit. In fact, I rather dislike -him. You're the only person I love." -</p> -<p> -"When you're not hating me, eh?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, that's right. When I'm not hating you." -</p> -<p> -Then after a second long pause he suddenly decided to make one last -effort for the tranquillising of the future. -</p> -<p> -"Helen," he began pleadingly, "Can't you stop hating me? Is it too late -to begin everything afresh? Can't we——" -</p> -<p> -Then he stopped. All the eloquence went out of him suddenly, like the -air out of a suddenly pricked balloon. His brain refused to frame the -sentences of promise and supplication that he had intended. His brain -was tired—utterly tired. He felt he did not care whether Helen stayed -with him or not, whether she ran away with Pritchard or not, whether his -own relationship with her improved, worsened, or ceased altogether, -whether anything in the world happened or did not happen. All he wanted -was peace—peace from the eternal torment of his mind. -</p> -<p> -She suddenly put her arms round him and kissed him passionately. "We -<i>will</i> begin again, Kenneth," she said eagerly. "We <i>will</i> be -happy again, won't we? Oh yes, I know <i>we</i> will. When we get to -Seacliffe we'll have a second honeymoon together, what do you think, -darling?" -</p> -<p> -"Rather," he replied, with simulated enthusiasm. In reality he felt -sick—physically sick. Something in the word "honeymoon" set his -nerves on edge. Poor little darling Helen—why on earth had he ever -married such a creature? They would never be happy together, he was -quite certain of that. And yet ... well, anyway, they had to make the -best of it. He smiled at her and returned her kisses, and then suggested -packing the trunk in readiness for the morning. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER SIX -<br /><br /> -I</h4> - -<p> -In the morning there arrived a letter from Clare. He guessed it from the -postmark, and was glad that she had the tact to type the address on the -envelope. When he tore it open he saw that the letter was also -typewritten, and signed merely "C. H.", so that he was able to read it -at the breakfast-table without any fears of Helen guessing. It was a -curious sensation, that of reading a letter from Clare with Helen so -near to him, and so unsuspecting. -</p> -<p> -It ran:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"DEAR KENNETH SPEED—As I told you last night I feel thoroughly -disgusted with myself—I knew I should. I'm very sorry I acted as I -did, though of course everything I said was true. If you take my advice -you'll take Helen right away and never come near Millstead any more. -Begin life with her afresh, and don't expect it to be too easy. As for -me—you'd better forget if you can. We mustn't ever see each other -again, and I think we had better not write, either. I really mean that -and I hope you won't send me any awfully pathetic reply as it will only -make things more awkward than they are. There was a time when you -thought I was hard-hearted; you must try and think so again, because I -really don't want to have anything more to do with you. It sounds -brutal, but it isn't, really. You have still time to make your life a -success, and the only way to do it in the present circumstances is to -keep away from my evil influence. So good-bye and good luck. -Yours—C.H."—"P.S. If you ever do return to Millstead you won't -find me there."</p></blockquote> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -He was so furious that he tore the letter up and flung it into the fire. -</p> -<p> -"What is it?" enquired Helen. -</p> -<p> -He forced himself to reply: "Oh, only a tradesman's letter." -</p> -<p> -She answered, with vague sympathy: "Everybody's being perfectly horrid, -aren't they?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I don't care," he replied, shrugging his shoulders and eating -vigorously. "I don't care a damn for the lot of them." -</p> -<p> -She looked at him in thoughtful silence. -</p> -<p> -Towards the end of the meal he had begun to wonder if it had been -Clare's object to put him in just that mood of fierce aggressiveness and -truculence. He wished he had not thrown the letter into the fire. He -would like to have re-read it, and to have studied the phrasing with a -view to more accurate interpretation. -</p> -<p> -That was about seven-thirty in the morning. The bells were just -beginning to ring in the dormitories and the floors above to creak with -the beginnings of movement. It was a dull morning in early March, cold, -but not freezing; the sky was full of mist and clouds, and very likely -it would rain later. As he looked out of the window, for what might be -the last time in his life, he realised that he was leaving Millstead -without a pang. It astonished him a little. There was nothing in the -place that he still cared for. All his dreams were in ruins, all his -hopes shattered, all his enthusiasms burned away; he could look out upon -Millstead, that had once contained them all, without love and without -malice. It was nothing to him now; a mere box of bricks teeming with -strangers. Even the terror of it had vanished; it stirred him to no -emotion at all. He could leave it as casually as he could a railway -station at which he had stopped <i>en route</i>. -</p> -<p> -And when he tried, just by way of experiment, to resuscitate for a -moment some of the feelings he had once had, he was conscious only of -immense mental strain, for something inside him that was sterile and -that ached intolerably. He remembered how, on the moonlight nights of -his first term, his eyes would fill with tears as he saw the great -window-lit blocks of Milner's and Lavery's rising into the pale night. -He remembered it without passion and without understanding. He was so -different now from what he had been then. He was older now; he was -tired; his emotions had been wrung dry; some of him was a little -withered. -</p> -<p> -An hour later he left Millstead quite undramatically by the 9.5. The -taxi came to the door of Lavery's at ten minutes to nine, while the -school was in morning chapel; as he rode away and out of the main gates -he could hear, faintly above the purr of the motor, the drone of two -hundred voices making the responses in the psalms. It did not bring to -his heart a single pang or to his eye a single tear. Helen sat beside -him and she, too, was unmoved; but she had never cared for Millstead. -She was telling him about Seacliffe. -</p> -<p> -As the taxi bounded into the station yard she said: "Oh, Kenneth, did -you leave anything for Burton?" -</p> -<p> -"No," he answered, curtly. -</p> -<p> -"You ought to have done," she said. -</p> -<p> -That ended their conversation till they were in the train. -</p> -<p> -As he looked out of the window at the dull, bleak fen country he -wondered how he could ever have thought it beautiful. Mile after mile of -bare, grey-green fields, ditches of tangled reeds, forlorn villages, -trees that stood solitary in the midst of great plains. He saw every now -and then the long, flat road along which he had cycled many times to -Pangbourne. And in a little while Pangbourne itself came into view, with -its huge dominating cathedral round which he had been wont formerly to -conduct little enthusiastic parties of Millsteadians; Pangbourne had -seemed to him so pretty and sunlit in those days, but now all was dull -and dreary, and the mist was creeping up in swathes from the fenlands. -Pangbourne station... -</p> -<p> -Again he wished that he had not burnt Clare's letter. -</p> -<p> -At noon he was at Seacliffe, booking accommodation at the Beach Hotel. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p> -"Heaven knows what we are going to do with ourselves here," he remarked -to Helen during lunch. -</p> -<p> -"You've got to rest," replied Helen. -</p> -<p> -He went on to a melancholy mastication of bread. "So far as I can see, -we're the only visitors in the entire hotel." -</p> -<p> -"Well, Kenneth, March is hardly the season, is it?" -</p> -<p> -"Then why did we come here? I'd much rather have gone to town, where -there's always something happening. But a seaside-place in winter!—is -there anything in the world more depressing?" -</p> -<p> -"There's nobody in the world more depressing than you are yourself," she -answered tartly. "It isn't my fault we've come here in March. It isn't -my fault we've come here at all. And what good would London have done -for you? It's rest you want, and you'll get it here." -</p> -<p> -"Heavens, yes—I'll get it all right." -</p> -<p> -After a silence he smiled and said: "I'm sorry, Helen, for being such a -wet blanket. And you're quite right, it isn't your fault—not any of -it. What can we do this afternoon?" -</p> -<p> -"We can have a walk along the cliffs," she answered. -</p> -<p> -He nodded and took up a week-old copy of the <i>Seacliffe Gazette</i>. -"That's what we'll do," he said, beginning to read. -</p> -<p> -So that afternoon they had a walk along the cliffs. -</p> -<p> -In fact there was really nothing at all to do in Seacliffe during the -winter season except to take a walk along the cliffs. Everything wore an -air of depression—the dingy rain-sodden refreshment kiosks, the -shuttered bandstand, the rusting tram rails on the promenade, along -which no trams had run since the preceding October, the melancholy pier -pavilion, forlornly decorated with the tattered advertisements of last -season's festivities. Nothing remained of the town's social amenities -but the cindered walk along the cliff edges, and this, except for -patches of mud and an absence of strollers, was much the same as usual. -Speed and Helen walked vigorously, as people do on the first day of -their holidays—grimly determined to extract every atom of nourishment -out of the much-advertised air. They climbed the slope of the Beach -hill, past the gaunt five-storied basemented boarding-houses, past the -yachting club-house, past the marine gardens, past the rows of glass -shelters, and then on to the winding cinder-path that rose steeply to -the edge of the cliffs. Meanwhile the mist turned to rain and the sea -and the sky merged together into one vast grey blur without a horizon. -</p> -<p> -Then they went back to the Beach Hotel for tea. -</p> -<p> -Then they read the magazines until dinner-time, and after dinner, more -magazines until bedtime. -</p> -<p> -The next day came the same routine again; walk along the cliffs in the -morning; walk along the cliffs in the afternoon; tea; magazines; dinner; -magazines; bed. Speed discovered in the hotel a bookcase entirely filled -with cheap novels that had been left behind by previous visitors. He -read some of them until their small print gave him a headache. Helen -revelled in them. In the mornings, by way of a variant from the cliff -walk, they took to sitting on the windless side of the municipal -shelters, absorbed in the novels. It was melancholy, and yet Speed felt -with some satisfaction that he was undoubtedly resting, and that, on the -whole, he was enduring it better than he had expected. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p> -Then slowly there grew in him again the thought of Clare. It was as if, -as soon as he gained strength at all, that strength should bring with it -turmoil and desire, so that the only peace that he could ever hope for -was the joyless peace of exhaustion. The sharp sea-salt winds that -brought him health and vigour brought him also passion, passion that -racked and tortured him into weakness again. -</p> -<p> -He wished a thousand times that he had not burned Clare's letter. He -felt sure that somewhere in it there must have been a touch of verbal -ambiguity or subtlety that would have given him some message of hope; he -could not believe that she had sent him merely a letter of dismissal. In -one sense, he was glad that he had burned the letter, for the -impossibility of recovering it made it easier for him to suppose -whatever he wished about it. And whatever he wished was really only one -wish in the world, a wish of one word: Clare. He wanted her, her -company, her voice, her movements around him, the sight of her, her -quaint perplexing soul that so fitted in with his own, her baffling -mysterious understandings of him that nobody else had ever had at all. -He wanted her as a sick man longs for health; as if he had a divine -right to her, and as if the withholding of her from him gave him a -surging grudge against the world. -</p> -<p> -One dreary interval between tea at the hotel and dinner he wrote to her. -He wrote in a mood in which he cared not if his writing angered her or -not; her silence, if she did not reply, would be his answer. And if she -did not reply, he vowed solemnly to himself that he would never write to -her again, that he would put her out of his life and spend his energies -in forgetting her. -</p> -<p> -He wrote:— -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"DEAR CLARE—I destroyed your letter, and I can't quite remember -whether it forbade me to reply or not. Anyhow, that's only my excuse for -it. I'm having a dreadfully dull time at Seacliffe—we're the only -visitors at the hotel and, so far as I can see, the only visitors in -Seacliffe at all. I'm not exactly enjoying it, but I daresay it's doing -me good. Thanks ever so much for your advice—I mean to profit by -it—most of it, at any rate. But mayn't I write to you—even -if you don't write to me? I do want to, especially now. May -I!—Yours, KENNETH SPEED." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -No answer to that. For nearly a week he scanned the rack in the -entrance-hall, hoping to see his own name typewritten on an envelope, -for he guessed that even if she did reply she would take that -precaution. But in vain his hurried and anxious returns from the -cliff-walks; no letter was there. And at last, tortured to despair, he -wrote again. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"DEAR CLARE—You haven't answered my letter. I did think you would, -and now I'm a prey to all sorts of awful and, no doubt, quite ridiculous -fears. And I'm going to ask you again, half-believing that you didn't -receive my last letter—may I write to you? May I write to you -whenever I want? I can't have your company, I know—surely you -haven't the heart to deny me the friendship I can get by writing to you? -You needn't answer: I promise I will never ask for an answer. I don't -care if the letters I write offend you or not; there is only one case in -which I should like you to be good enough to reply to me and tell me not -to write again. And that is if you were beginning to forget me—if -letters from me were beginning to be a bore to you. <i>Please</i>, -therefore, let me write.—Yours, KENNETH SPEED." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -To that there came a reply by return of post: -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"MY DEAR KENNETH SPEED,—I think correspondence between us is both -unwise and unnecessary, but I don't see how I can prevent you from -writing if you wish to. And you need not fear that I shall forget -you.—CLARE."</p></blockquote> - -<p> -He replied, immediately, and with his soul tingling with the renewal of -happiness: -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"DEAR CLARE,—Thank God you can't stop me from writing, and thank -God you know you can't. I don't feel unhappy now that I can write to -you, now that I know you will read what I write. I feel so unreticent -where you are concerned—I want you to <i>understand</i>, and I -don't really care, when you have understood, whether you condemn or not. -This is going (perhaps) to be a longish letter; I'm alone in the lounge -of this entirely God-forsaken hotel—Helen is putting on a frock -for dinner, and I've got a quarter-of-an-hour for you. -</p> -<p> -"This is what I've found out since I've come to Seacliffe. I've found -out the true position of you and me. You've sunk far deeper into my soul -than I have ever guessed, and I don't honestly know how on earth I'm to -get rid of you! For the last ten days I've been fighting hard to drive -you away, but I'm afraid I've been defeated. You're there still, -securely entrenched as ever, and you simply won't budge. The only times -I don't think of you are the times when I'm too utterly tired out to -think of anything or anybody. Worse still, the stronger I get the more I -want you. Why can't I stop it? You yourself said during our memorable -interview after the 'rag' that it wasn't a bit of good trying to stop -loving somebody. So <i>you</i> know, as well as me—am I to conclude -that, you Hound of Heaven? -</p> -<p> -"But you can't get rid of me, I hope, any more than I can of you. You -may go to the uttermost ends of the earth, but it won't matter. I shall -still have you, I shall always bore you—in fact, I've got you now, -haven't I? Don't we belong to each other in spite of ourselves? -</p> -<p> -"I tell you, I've tried to drive you out of my mind. And I really think -I might succeed better if I didn't try. Therefore, I shan't try any -more. How can you deliberately try to forget anybody? The mere -deliberation of the effort rivets them more and more eternally on your -memory! -</p> -<p> -"Helen and I are getting on moderately well. We don't quarrel. We -exchange remarks about the weather, and we discuss trashy novels which -we both have read, and we take long and uninteresting walks along the -cliffs and admire the same views, over and over again. Helen thinks the -rest must be doing me a lot of good. Oh my dear, dear Clare, am I wicked -because I sit down here and write to you these pleading, treacherous -letters, while my wife dresses herself upstairs without a thought that I -am so engaged? Am I really full of sin? I know if I put my case before -ninety-nine out of a hundred men and women what answer I should receive. -But are you the hundredth? I don't care if you are or not; if this is -wickedness, I clasp it as dearly as if it were not. I just can't help -it. I lie awake at nights trying to think nice, husbandly things about -Helen, and just when I think I've got really interested in her I find -it's you I've really been thinking about and not Helen at all. -</p> -<p> -"There must be some wonderful and curious bond between us, some sort of -invisible elastic. It wouldn't ever break, no matter how far apart we -went, but when it's stretched it hurts, hurts us both, I hope, equally. -Is it really courage to go on hurting ourselves like this? What is the -good of it? Supposing—I only say supposing—supposing we let go, -let the elastic slacken, followed our heart's desire, what then? Who would -suffer? Helen, I suppose. Poor Helen!—I mustn't let her suffer like -that, must I? -</p> -<p> -"It wasn't real love that I ever had for her; it was just mere physical -infatuation. And now that's gone, all that's left is just dreadful -pity—oh, pity that will not let me go! And yet what good is -pity—the sort of pity that I have for her? -</p> -<p> -"Ever since I first knew you, you have been creeping into my heart ever -so slowly and steadily, and I, because I never guessed what was -happening, have yielded myself to you utterly. In fact, I am a man -possessed by a devil—a good little devil—yet—" -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -He looked round and saw Helen standing by the side of him. He had not -heard her approach. She might have been there some while, he reflected. -Had she been looking over his shoulder? Did she know to whom was the -letter he was writing? -</p> -<p> -He started, and instinctively covered as much of the writing as he could -with the sleeve of his jacket. -</p> -<p> -"I didn't know you still wrote to Clare," she said, quietly. -</p> -<p> -"Who said I did?" he parried, with instant truculence. -</p> -<p> -"You're writing to her now." -</p> -<p> -"How do you know?" -</p> -<p> -"Never mind how I know. Answer me: you are, aren't you?" -</p> -<p> -"I refuse to answer such a question. Surely I haven't to tell you of -every letter I write. If you've been spying over my shoulder it's your -own fault. How would you like me to read all the letters you write?" -</p> -<p> -"I wouldn't mind in the least, Kenneth, if I thought you didn't trust -me." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I do trust you, you see, and even if I didn't I shouldn't attempt -such an unheard—of liberty. And if you can't trust me without -censoring my correspondence, I'm afraid you'll have to go on mistrusting -me." -</p> -<p> -"I don't want to censor your correspondence. I only want you to answer -me a straight question: is that a letter to Clare that you're writing?" -</p> -<p> -"It's a most improper question, and I refuse to answer it." -</p> -<p> -"Very well.... I think it's time for dinner; hadn't you better finish -the letter afterwards? Unless of course, it's very important." -</p> -<p> -During dinner she said: "I don't feel like staying in from now until -bedtime. You'll want to finish your letter, of course, so I think, if -you don't mind, I'll go to the local kinema." -</p> -<p> -"You can't go alone, can you?" -</p> -<p> -"There's nobody can very easily stop me, is there? You don't want to -come with me, I suppose?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm afraid I don't care for kinemas much? Isn't there a theatre -somewhere?" -</p> -<p> -"No. Only a kinema. I looked in the <i>Seacliffe Gazette</i>. In the summer -there are Pierrots on the sands, of course." -</p> -<p> -"So you want to go alone to the kinema?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"All right. But I'll meet you when it's over. Half-past ten, I suppose?" -</p> -<p> -"Probably about then. You don't mind me leaving you for a few hours, do -you?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, not at all. I hope you have a good time. I'm sure I can quite -understand you being bored with Seacliffe. It's the deadest hole I've -ever struck." -</p> -<p> -"But it's doing you good, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, I daresay it is in <i>that</i> way." -</p> -<p> -She added, after a pause: "When you get back to the lounge you'll wonder -where you put your half-written letter." -</p> -<p> -"What do you mean?" He suddenly felt in his inside coat-pocket. -"Why—where is it? I thought I put it in my pocket. Who's got it? Have -<i>you</i>?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. You thought you put it in your pocket, I know. But you didn't. You -left it on the writing table and I picked it up when you weren't -looking." -</p> -<p> -"Then you <i>have</i> got it?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I have got it." -</p> -<p> -He went red with rage. "Helen, I don't want to make a scene in front of -the servants, but I insist on you giving up to me that letter. You've -absolutely no right to it, and I demand that you give it me -immediately." -</p> -<p> -"You shall have it after I've read it." -</p> -<p> -"Good God, Helen, don't play the fool with me! I want it now, this -minute! Understand, I mean it! I want it now!" -</p> -<p> -"And I shan't give it to you." -</p> -<p> -He suddenly looked round the room. There was nobody there; the waitress -was away; the two of them were quite alone. He rose out of his chair and -with a second cautious glance round him went over to her and seized her -by the neck with one hand while with the other he felt in her corsage -for the letter. He knew that was where she would have put it. The very -surprise of his movement made it successful. In another moment he had -the letter in his hand. He stood above her, grim and angry, flaunting -the letter high above her head. She made an upward spring for his hand, -and he, startled by her quick retaliation, crumpled the letter into a -heap and flung it into the fire at the side of the room. Then they both -stared at each other in silence. -</p> -<p> -"So it's come to that," she said, her face very white. She placed her -hand to her breast and said: "By the way, you've hurt me." -</p> -<p> -He replied: "I'm sorry if I hurt you. I didn't intend to. I simply -wanted to get the letter, that's all." -</p> -<p> -"All right," she answered. "I'll excuse you for hurting me." -</p> -<p> -Then the waitress entered with the sweet and their conversation was -abruptly interrupted. -</p> -<p> -After dinner he went back into the lounge and took up an illustrated -paper. Somehow, he did not feel inclined to try to rewrite the letter to -Clare. And in any case, he could not have remembered more than bits of -it; it would have to be a fresh letter if he wrote at all. -</p> -<p> -Helen came downstairs to him with hat and coat on ready for outdoors. -</p> -<p> -"Good-bye," she said, "I'm going." -</p> -<p> -He said: "Hadn't I better take you down to the place? I don't mind a bit -of a walk, you know." -</p> -<p> -She answered: "Oh, no, don't bother. It's not far. You get on with your -letter-writing." -</p> -<p> -Then she paused almost at the door of the lounge, and said, coming back -to him suddenly: "Kiss me before I go, Kenneth." -</p> -<p> -He kissed her. Then she smiled and went out. -</p> -<p> -An hour later he started another letter to Clare. -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"MY DEAR, <i>dear</i> CLARE,—I'm so pleased it has not all come to -an end! ... All those hours we spent together, all the work we have -shared, all our joy and laughter and sympathy together—it could -not have counted for nothing, could it? We dare not have put an end to -it; we should fear being haunted all our lives. We ..." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Then the tired feeling came on him, and he no longer wanted -to write, not even to Clare. He put the hardly-begun letter in his -pocket—carefully, this time—and took up the illustrated -paper again. He half wished he had gone with Helen to the kinema.... A -quarter to ten.... It would soon be time for him to stroll out and meet -her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p> -Walking along the promenade to the beach kinema he solemnly reviewed his -life. He saw kaleidoscopically his childhood days at Beachings Over, -then the interludes at Harrow and Cambridge, and then the sudden -tremendous plunge—Millstead! It seemed to him that ever since that -glowering April afternoon when he had first stepped into Ervine's dark -study, events had been shaping themselves relentlessly to his ruin. He -could see himself as a mere automaton, moved upon by the calm accurate -fingers of fate. His meeting with Helen, his love of her and hers for -him, their marriage, their slow infinitely wearisome estrangement—all -seemed as if it had been planned with sinister deliberation. Only one -section of his life had been dominated by his own free will, and that -was the part of it that had to do with Clare. He pondered over the -subtle differentiation, and decided at last that it was invalid, and -that fate had operated at least as much with Clare as with Helen. And -yet, for all that, the distinction remained in his mind. His life with -Helen seemed to press him down, to cramp him in a narrow groove, to -deprive him of all self-determination; it was only when he came to Clare -that he was free again and could do as he liked. Surely it was he -himself, and not fate, that drew him joyously to Clare. -</p> -<p> -The mist that had hovered over Seacliffe all day was now magically -lifted, and out of a clear sky there shone a moon with the slightest of -yellow haloes encircling it. The promenade was nearly deserted, and in -all the tall cliff of boarding-houses along the Marine Parade there was -hardly a window with a light in it. The solitary redness of the lamp on -the end of the pier sent a soft shimmer over the intervening water; the -sea, at almost high tide, was quite calm. Hardly a murmur of the waves -reached his ears as he strolled briskly along, but that was because they -were right up against the stone wall of the promenade and had no beach -of pebbles to be noisy with. He leaned over the railings and saw the -water immediately beneath him, silvered in moonlight. Seacliffe was -beautiful now.... Then he looked ahead and saw the garish illuminations -of the solitary picture-palace that Seacliffe possessed, and he wondered -how Helen or anybody could prefer a kinema entertainment to the glory of -the night outside. And yet, he reflected, the glory of the night was a -subjective business; it required a certain mood; whereas the kinema -created its own mood, asking and requiring nothing. Poor Helen! -</p> -<p> -Why should pity for her have overwhelmed him suddenly at that moment? He -did not love her, not the least fraction; yet he would have died for her -if such had need to be. If she were in danger he would not stay to -think; he would risk life or limb for her sake without a premonitory -thought. He almost longed for the opportunity to sacrifice himself for -her in some such way. He felt he owed it to her. But there was one -sacrifice that was <i>too</i> hard—he could not live with her in -contentment, giving up Clare. He knew he couldn't. He saw quite clearly -in the future the day when he would leave Helen and go to Clare. Not -fate this time, but the hungering desire of his heart, that would not -let him rest. -</p> -<p> -And yet, was not this same desire fate itself, his own fate, leading him -on and further to some inevitable end? Only that he did not fear it. He -opened wide his arms, welcoming it, longing for and therefore -unconscious of its domination. -</p> -<p> -He stood in front of the gilded dinginess of the picture-place, -pondering on his destiny, when there came up to him a shabby little man -in a long tattered overcoat, who asked him for a light. Speed, who was -so anxious not to be a snob that he usually gave to strangers the -impression of being one, proffered a box of matches and smiled. But for -the life of him he could not think of anything to say. He felt he ought -to say something, lest the other fellow might think him surly; he racked -his brain for some appropriate remark and eventually said: "Nice night." -The other lit the stump of a cigarette contemplatively and replied: -"Yes. Nice night.... Thanks.... Waiting for somebody?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," replied Speed, rather curtly. He had no desire to continue the -conversation, still less to discuss his own affairs. -</p> -<p> -"Rotten hole, Seacliffe, in winter," resumed the stranger, showing no -sign of moving on. -</p> -<p> -"Yes," agreed Speed. -</p> -<p> -"Nothing to do—nowhere to go—absolutely the deadest place on -God's earth. I live here and I know. Every night I take a stroll about this -time and to-night's bin the first night this year I've ever seen anything -happen at all." -</p> -<p> -"Indeed?" -</p> -<p> -The stranger ignored the obvious boredness of Speed's voice, and -continued: "Yes. That's the truth. But it happened all right to-night. -Quite exciting, in fact." -</p> -<p> -He looked at Speed to see if his interest was in any way aroused. Such -being not yet so he remarked again: "Yes, quite exciting." He paused and -added: -</p> -<p> -"Bit gruesome perhaps—to some folks." -</p> -<p> -Speed said, forcing himself to be interested: -</p> -<p> -"Why, what was it?" -</p> -<p> -And the other, triumphant that he had secured an attentive audience at -last, replied: "Body found. Pulled up off the breakwater.... Drowned, of -course." -</p> -<p> -Even now Speed was only casually interested. -</p> -<p> -"Really? And who was it?" -</p> -<p> -"Don't know the name.... A woman's body." -</p> -<p> -"Nobody identified her yet?" -</p> -<p> -"Not yet. They say she's not a Seacliffe woman.... See <i>there</i>!" He -pointed back along the promenade towards a spot where, not half an hour -ago, Speed had leaned over the railings to see the moonlight on the sea. -"Can you see the crowd standing about? That's where they dragged her in. -Only about ten minutes ago as I was passin'. Very high tide, you know, -washes all sorts of things up.... I didn't stay long—bit too gruesome -for me." -</p> -<p> -"Yes," agreed Speed. "And for me too.... By the way d'you happen to know -when this picture house shuts up?" -</p> -<p> -"About half-past ten, mostly." -</p> -<p> -"Thanks." -</p> -<p> -"Well—I'll be gettin' along.... Much obliged for the light.... -Good-night...." -</p> -<p> -"Good-night," said Speed. -</p> -<p> -A few minutes later the crowd began to tumble out of the kinema. He -stood in the darkness against a blank wall, where he could see without -being seen. He wondered whether he had not better take Helen home -through the town instead of along the promenade. It was a longer way, of -course, but it would avoid the unpleasant affair that the stranger had -mentioned to him. He neither wished to see himself nor wished Helen to -see anything of the sort. -</p> -<p> -Curious that she was so late? The kinema must be almost empty now; the -stream of people had stopped. He saw the manager going to the box-office -to lock up. "Have they all come out?" he asked, emerging into the rays -of the electric lights. "Yes, everybody," answered the other. He even -glanced at Speed suspiciously, as if he wondered why he should be -waiting for somebody who obviously hadn't been to the kinema at all. -</p> -<p> -Well.... Speed stood in a sheltered alcove and lit a cigarette. He had -better get back to the Beach Hotel, anyway. Perhaps Helen hadn't gone to -the picture-show after all. Or, perhaps, she had come out before the end -and they had missed each other. Perhaps anything.... Anything! ... -</p> -<p> -Then suddenly the awful thought occurred to him. At first it was -fantastic; he walked along, sampling it in a horrified fashion, yet -refusing to be in the least perturbed by it. Then it gained ground upon -him, made him hasten his steps, throw away his cigarette, and finally -run madly along the echoing promenade to the curious little silent crowd -that had gathered there, about half-way to the pier entrance. He -scampered along the smooth asphalt just like a boisterous youngster, yet -in his eyes was wild brain-maddening fear. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>V</h4> - -<p> -Ten minutes later he knew. They pointed to a gap in the railings close -by, made some while before by a lorry that had run out of control along -the Marine Parade. The Urban District Council ought to have repaired the -railings immediately after the accident, and he (somebody in the crowd) -would not be surprised if the coroner censured the Council pretty -severely at the inquest. The gap was a positive death-trap for anybody -walking along at night and not looking carefully ahead. And <i>he</i> -(somebody else in the crowd) suggested the possibility of making the -Seacliffe Urban District Council pay heavy damages.... Of course, it was -an accident.... There was a bad bruise on the head: that was where she -must have struck the stones as she fell.... And in one of the pockets -was a torn kinema ticket; clearly she had been on her way home from the -Beach kinema.... Once again, it was the Council's fault for not promptly -repairing the dangerous gap in the railings. -</p> -<p> -They led him back to the Beach Hotel and gave him brandy. He kept -saying: "Now please go—I'm quite all right.... There's really nothing -that anybody can do for me.... Please go now...." -</p> -<p> -When at last he was alone in the cheerless hotel bedroom he sat down on -the side of the bed and cried. Not for sorrow or pity or terror, but -merely to relieve some fearful strain of emotion that was in him. Helen -dead! He could hardly force himself to believe it, but when he did he -felt sorry, achingly sorry, because there had been so many bonds between -them, so many bonds that only death could have snapped. He saw her now, -poor little woman, as he had never seen her before; the love in her -still living, and all that had made them unhappy together vanished away. -He loved her, those minutes in the empty, cheerless bedroom, more calmly -than he had ever loved her when she had been near to him. And—strange -miracle!—she had given him peace at last. Pity for her no longer -overwhelmed him with its sickly torture; he was calm, calm with sorrow, -but calm. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VI</h4> - -<p> -Then, slowly, grimly, as to some fixed and inevitable thing, his torture -returned. He tried to persuade himself that the worst was over, that -tragedy had spent its terrible utmost; but even the sad calm of -desperation was nowhere to be found. He paced up and down the bedroom -long and wearisomely; shortly after midnight the solitary gas-jet -faltered and flickered and finally abandoned itself with a forlorn pop. -"<i>Curse</i> the place!" he muttered, acutely nervous in the sudden -gloom; then for some moments he meditated a sarcastic protest to the -hotel-proprietress in the morning. "I am aware," he would begin, tartly, -"that the attractions of Seacliffe in the evenings are not such as would -often tempt the visitor to keep up until the small hours; but don't you -think that is an argument <i>against</i> rather than <i>for</i> turning -off the gas-supply at midnight?" Rather ponderous, though; probably the -woman wouldn't know what he meant. He might write a letter to the -<i>Seacliffe Gazette</i> about it, anyway. "Oh, <i>damn</i> them!" he -exclaimed, with sudden fervour, as he searched for the candle on the -dressing-table. Unfortunately he possessed no matches, and the -candlestick, when at last his groping had discovered it, contained none, -either. It was so infernally dark and silent; everybody in the place was -in bed except himself. He pictured the maids, sleeping cosily in the top -attics, or perhaps chattering together in whispers about clothes or -their love-affairs or Seacliffe gossip or—why, of -course!—about <i>him</i>. They would surely be talking about him. -Such a tit-bit of gossip! Everyone in Seacliffe would be full of the -tragedy of the young fellow whose wife, less than a year married, had -fallen accidentally into the sea off the promenade! He, not she, would -be the figure of high tragedy in their minds, and on the morrow they -would all stare at him morbidly, curiously.... Good God in Heaven! Could -he endure it? ... Lightly the moonlight filtered through the Venetian -blinds on to the garish linoleum pattern; and when the blinds were -stirred by the breeze the light skipped along the floor like moving -swords; he could not endure that, anyway. He went to the windows and -drew up the blinds, one after the other. They would hear that, he -reflected, if they were awake; they would know he was not asleep. -</p> -<p> -Then he remembered her as he had seen her less than a twelvemonth -before; standing knee-deep in the grasses by the river-bank at -Parminters. Everywhere that he had loved her was so clear now in his -mind, and everywhere else was so unreal and dim. He heard the tinkle of -the Head's piano and saw her puzzling intently over some easy Chopin -mazurka, her golden hair flame-like in the sunlight of the afternoon. He -saw the paths and fields of Millstead, all radiant where she and he had -been, and the moonlight lapping the pavilion steps, where, first of all, -he had touched her lips with his. And then—only with an effort -could he picture this—he saw the grim room downstairs, where she -lay all wet and bedraggled, those cheeks that he had kissed ice-cold and -salt with the sea. The moon, emerging fully from behind a mist, plunged -him suddenly in white light; at that moment it seemed to him that he was -living in some ugly nightmare, and that shortly he would wake from it -and find all the tragedy untrue. Helen was alive and well: he could only -have imagined her dead. And downstairs, in that sitting-room—it -had been no more than a dream, fearful and—thank -God—false. Helen was away, somewhere, perfectly well and -happy—<i>somewhere</i>. And downstairs, in that sitting-room ... -Anyhow, he would go down and see, to convince himself. He unlocked the -bedroom door and tiptoed out on to the landing. He saw the moon's rays -caught phosphorescently on a fish in a glass case. Down the two flights -of stairs he descended with caution, and then, at the foot, strove to -recollect which was the room. He saw two doors, with something written -on them. One was the bar-parlour, he thought, where the worthies of -Seacliffe congregated nightly. He turned the handle and saw the -glistening brass of the beer-engines. Then the other door, might be? He -tried the handle, but the door was locked. Somehow this infuriated him. -"They lock the doors and turn off the gas!" he cried, vehemently, -uniting his complaints. Then suddenly he caught sight of another door in -the wall opposite, a door on which there was no writing at all. He had -an instant conviction that this must be <i>the</i> door. He strode to -it, menacingly, took hold of its handle in a firm grasp, and pushed. -Locked again! This time he could not endure the fury that raged within -him. "Good God!" he cried, shouting at the top of his voice, "I'll burst -every door in the place in!" He beat on the panels with his fists, -shouting and screaming the whole while.... -</p> -<p> -Ten minutes later the hotel-porter and the bar man, clad in trousers and -shirt only, were holding his arms on either side, and the proprietress, -swathed in a pink dressing-gown, was standing a little way off, staring -at him curiously. And he was complaining to her about the turning off of -the gas at midnight. "One really has a right to expect something more -generous from the best hotel in Seacliffe," he was saying, with an -argumentative mildness that surprised himself. "It is not as though this -were a sixpenny doss-house. It is an A.A. listed hotel, and I consider -it absolutely scandalous that ..." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VII</h4> - -<p> -Strangely, when he was back again and alone in his own bedroom, he felt -different. His gas-jet was burning again, evidently as a result of his -protest; the victory gave him a curious, childish pleasure. Nor did his -burdens weigh so heavily on him; indeed, he felt even peaceful enough to -try to sleep. He undressed and got into bed. -</p> -<p> -And then, slowly, secretly, dreadfully, he discovered that he was -thinking about Clare! It frightened him—this way she crept into his -thoughts as pain comes after the numbness of a blow. He knew he ought -not to think of her. He ought to put her out of his mind, at any rate, -for the present. Helen dead this little while, and already Clare in his -thoughts! The realisation appalled him, terrified him by affording him a -glimpse into the depths of his own dark soul. And yet—<i>he could not -help it</i>. Was he to be blamed for the thoughts that he could not drive -out of his mind? He prayed urgently and passionately for sleep, that he -might rid himself of the lurking, lurking image of her. But even in -sleep he feared he might dream of her. -</p> -<p> -Oh, Clare, Clare, would she ever come to him now, now that he was alone -and Helen was dead? God, the awfulness of the question! Yet he could not -put it away from him; he could but deceive himself, might be, into -thinking he was not asking it. He wanted Clare. Not more than -ever—only as much as he had always wanted her. -</p> -<p> -He wondered solemnly if the stuff in him were rotten; if he were proven -vile and debased because he wanted her; if he were cancelling his soul by -thinking of her so soon. And yet—God help him; even if all that were -so, <i>he could not help it</i>. If he were to be damned eternally for -thinking about Clare, then let him be damned eternally. Actions he might -control, but never the strains and cravings of his own mind. If he were -wrong, therefore, let him be wrong. -</p> -<p> -He wondered whether, when he fell asleep, he would dream about Helen or -about Clare. And yet, when at last his very tiredness made him close his -eyes, he dreamed of neither of them, but slept in perfect calm, as a -child that has been forgiven. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -In the morning they brought his breakfast up to him in bed, and with it -a letter and a telegram. The chambermaid asked him dubiously if he were -feeling better and he replied: "Oh yes, much better, thanks." Only -vaguely could he remember what had taken place during the night. -</p> -<p> -When the girl had gone and he had glanced at the handwriting on the -envelope, he had a sudden paralysing shock, for it was Helen's! -</p> -<p> -The postmark was: "Seacliffe, 10.10 p.m." -</p> -<p> -He tore open the envelope with slow and awful dread, and took out a -single sheet of Beach Hotel notepaper. Scribbled on it in pencil was -just: -</p> - -<blockquote><p> -"DEAR KENNETH" ("Dear" underlined),—Good-bye, darling. I can't bear -you not to be happy. Forget me and don't worry. They will think it has been -an accident, and you mustn't tell them anything else. Leave Millstead -and take Clare away. Be happy with her.—Yours, HELEN."— -</p> -<p> -"P.S.—There's one thing I'm sorry for. On the last night before we -left Millstead I said something about Clare and Pritchard. Darling, it -was a lie—I made it up because I couldn't bear you to love Clare -so much. I don't mind now. Forgive me." -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -A moment later he was opening the telegram and reading: "Shall arrive -Seacliffe Station one fifteen meet me Clare." -</p> -<p> -It had been despatched from Millstead at nine-five that morning, -evidently as soon as the post office opened. -</p> -<p> -He ate no breakfast. It was a quarter past eleven and the sun was -streaming in through the window—the first spring day of the year. He -re-read the letter. -</p> -<p> -Strange that until then the thought that the catastrophe could have been -anything at all but accidental had never even remotely occurred to him! -Now it came as a terrible revelation, hardly to be believed, even with -proof; a revelation of that utmost misery that had driven her to the -sea. He had known that she was not happy, but he had never guessed that -she might be miserable to death. -</p> -<p> -And what escape was there now from his own overwhelming guilt? She had -killed herself because he had not made her happy. Or else because she -had not been able to make him happy. Whichever it was, he was fearfully -to blame. She had killed herself to make room for that other woman who -had taken all the joy out of her life. -</p> -<p> -And at one-fifteen that other woman would arrive in Seacliffe. -</p> -<p> -In the darkest depths of his remorse he vowed that he would not meet -her, see her, or hold any communication with her ever again, so long as -his life lasted. He would hate her eternally, for Helen's sake. He would -dedicate his life to the annihilation of her in his mind. Why was she -coming? Did she know? How <i>could</i> she know? He raved at her -mentally, trying to involve her in some share of his own deep treachery, -for even the companionship of guilt was at least companionship. The two -of them—Clare and himself—had murdered Helen. The two of -them—together. <i>Together</i>. There was black magic in the -intimacy that that word implied—magic in the guilty secret that -was between them, in the passionate iniquity that was alluring even in -its baseness! -</p> -<p> -He dressed hurriedly, and with his mind in a ferment, forgot his -breakfast till it was cold and then found it too unpalatable to eat. As -he descended the stairs and came into the hotel lobby he remarked to the -proprietress: "Oh, by the way, I must apologise for making a row last -night. Fact is, my nerves, you know.... Rather upset...." -</p> -<p> -"Quite all right, Mr. Speed. I'm sure we all understand and sympathise -with you. If there's any way we can help you, you know.... Shall you be -in to lunch?" -</p> -<p> -"Lunch? Oh yes—er—I mean, no. No, I don't think I -shall—not to-day. You see there are—er—arrangements to -make—er—arrangements, you know ..." -</p> -<p> -He smiled, and with carefully simulated nonchalance, commenced to light -a cigarette! When he got outside the hotel he decided that it was -absolutely the wrong thing to have done. He flung the cigarette into the -gutter. What was the matter with him? Something,—something that made -him, out of very fear, do ridiculous and inappropriate things. The same -instinct, no doubt, that always made him talk loudly when he was -nervous. And then he remembered that April morning of the year before, -when he had first of all entered the Headmaster's study at Millstead; -for then, through nervousness, he had spoken loudly, almost -aggressively, to disguise his embarrassment. What a curious creature he -was, and how curious people must think him. -</p> -<p> -He strolled round the town, bought a morning paper at the news agent's, -and pretended to be interested in the contents. Over him like a sultry -shadow lay the disagreeable paraphernalia of the immediate future: -doctors, coroner, inquest, lawyers, interviews with Doctor and Mrs. -Ervine, and so on. It had all to be gone through, but for the present he -would try to forget it. The turmoil of his own mind, that battle which -was being waged within his inmost self, that strife which no coroner -would guess, those secrets which no inquest would or could elicit; these -were the things of greater import. In the High Street, leading up from -the Pierhead, he saw half a dozen stalwart navvies swinging -sledge-hammers into the concrete road-bed. He stopped, ostensibly to -wait for a tram, but really to watch them. He envied them, passionately; -envied their strength and animal simplicity; envied above all their lack -of education and ignorance of themselves, their happy blindness along -the path of life. He wished he could forget such things as Art and -Culture and Education, and could become as they, or as he imagined them to -be. Their lives were brimful of <i>real</i> things, things to be held and -touched—hammers and levers and slabs of concrete. With all their -crude joy and all their pain, simple and physical, their souls grew strong -and stark. He envied them with a passion that made him desist at last from -the sight of them, because it hurt. -</p> -<p> -The town-hall clock began the hour of noon, and that reminded him of -Clare, and of the overwhelming fact that she was at that moment in the -train hastening to Seacliffe. Was he thinking of her again? He went into -a café and ordered in desperation a pot of China tea and some bread and -butter, as if the mere routine of a meal would rid his mind of her. For -desire was with him still, nor could he stave it off. Nothing that he -could ever discover, however ugly or terrible, could stop the craving of -him for Clare. The things that they had begun together, he and she, had -no ending in this world. And suddenly all sense of free-will left him, -and he felt himself propelled at a mighty rate towards her, wherever she -might be; fate, surely, guiding him to her, but this time, a fate that -was urging him from within, not pressing him from without. And he knew, -secretly, whatever indignant protests he might make to himself about it, -that when the 1:15 train entered Seacliffe station he would be waiting -there on the platform for her. The thing was inevitable, like death. -</p> -<p> -But inevitability did not spare him torment. And at last his remorse -insisted upon a compromise. He would meet Clare, he decided, but when he -had met her, he would proceed to torture her, subtly, -shrewdly—seeking vengeance for the tragedy that she had brought to -his life, and the spell that she had cast upon his soul. He would be the -Grand Inquisitor. -</p> -<p> -He was very white and haggard when the time came. He had reached the -station as early as one o'clock, and for a quarter of an hour had -lounged about the deserted platforms. Meanwhile the sun shone -gloriously, and the train as it ran into the station caught the sunlight -on its windows. The sight of the long line of coaches, curving into the -station like a flaming sword into its scabbard, gave him a mighty -heart-rending thrill. Yes, yes—he would torture her.... His eyes -glinted with diabolical exhilaration, and a touch of hectic colour crept -into his wan cheeks. He watched her alight from a third-class -compartment near the rear of the train. Then he lost her momentarily -amidst the emptying crowd. He walked briskly against the stream of the -throng, with a heart that beat fast with unutterable expectations. -</p> -<p> -But how he loved her as he saw her coming towards him!—though he -tried with all his might to kindle hate in his heart. She smiled and held -out her tiny hand. He took it with a limpness that was to begin his torture -of her. She was to notice that limpness. -</p> -<p> -"How is Helen?" was her first remark. -</p> -<p> -Amidst the bustle of the luggage round the guard's van he replied -quietly: "Helen? Oh, she's all right. I didn't tell her you were -coming." -</p> -<p> -"You were wise," she answered. -</p> -<p> -A faint thrill of anticipation crept over him; this diabolical game was -interesting, fascinating, in its way; and would lead her very securely -into a number of traps. And why, he thought, did she think it was wise -of him not to have told Helen? -</p> -<p> -In the station-yard she suddenly stopped to consult a time-table -hoarding. -</p> -<p> -"What are you doing?" he asked. -</p> -<p> -"I'm looking for the next train back to Millstead." -</p> -<p> -"Not the <i>next</i>, surely?" -</p> -<p> -"Why not? What do you think I've come for?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know in the least. What <i>have</i> you come for?" -</p> -<p> -She looked at him appealingly. He saw, with keen and instant relish, -that she had already noticed something of hostility in his attitude -towards her. The torture had begun. For the first time, she was subject -to his power and not he to hers. -</p> -<p> -"I've come for a few minutes' conversation," she answered, quietly. "And -the next train back is at 3:18." -</p> -<p> -"You mean to travel by that?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"Then we needn't stay in the station till then, need we? Let's walk -somewhere. We've two whole hours—time enough to get right out of the -town and back again. I hate conversations in railway-stations." -</p> -<p> -But his chief reason was a desire to secure the right scenic background -for his torture of her. -</p> -<p> -"All right," she answered, and looked at him again appealingly. The -tears almost welled into his own eyes because of the deep sadness that -was in hers. How quick she was to feel his harshness!—he thought. How -marvellously sensitive was that little soul of hers to the subtlest -gradations of his own mood! What fiendish torture he could put her to, -by no more, might be, than the merest upraising of an eyebrow, the -faintest change of the voice, the slightest tightening of the lips! She -was of mercury, like himself; responsive to every touch of the emotional -atmosphere. And was not that the reason why she understood him with such -wonderful instinctive intimacy,—was not that the reason why the two -of them, out of the whole world, would have sought each other like twin -magnets? -</p> -<p> -He led her, in silence, through the litter of mean streets near the -station, and thence, beyond the edge of the town, towards the meadows -that sloped to the sea. So far it had been a perfect day, but now the -sun was half-quenching itself in a fringe of mist that lay along the -horizon; and with the change there came a sudden pink light that lit -both their faces and shone behind them on the tawdry newness of the -town, giving it for once a touch of pitiful loveliness. He took her into -a rolling meadow that tapered down into a coppice, and as they reached -the trees the last shaft of sunlight died from the sky. Then they -plunged into the grey depths, with all the freshly-budded leaves -brushing against their faces, and the very earth, so it seemed, -murmuring at their approach. Already there was the hint of rain in the -air. -</p> -<p> -"It's a long way to come for a few minutes' conversation," he began. -</p> -<p> -She answered, ignoring his remark: "I had a letter from Helen this -morning." -</p> -<p> -"<i>What</i>!" he exclaimed in sharp fear. He went suddenly white. -</p> -<p> -"A letter," she went on, broodingly. "Would you like to see it?" -</p> -<p> -He stared at her and replied: "I would rather hear from you what it was -about." -</p> -<p> -He saw her brown eyes looking up curiously into his, and he had the -instant feeling that she would cry if he persisted in his torture of -her. The silence of that walk from the station had unnerved her, had -made her frightened of him. That was what he had intended. And she did -not know yet—did not know what he knew. Poor girl—what a blow -was in waiting for her! But he must not let it fall for a little while. -</p> -<p> -She bit her lip and said: "Very well. It was about you. She was unhappy -about you. Dreadfully unhappy. She said she was going to leave you. She -also said—that she was going to leave you—to—to me." -</p> -<p> -Her voice trembled on that final word. -</p> -<p> -"Well?" -</p> -<p> -She recovered herself to continue with more energy: "And I've come here -to tell you this—that if she does leave you, I shan't have you. -That's all." -</p> -<p> -"You are making large assumptions." -</p> -<p> -"I know. And I don't mind your sarcasm, though I don't think any more of -you for using it.... I repeat what I said—if Helen leaves you or if -you leave Helen, I shall have nothing more to do with you." -</p> -<p> -"It is certainly kind of you to warn me in time." -</p> -<p> -"You've never given Helen a fair trial. I know you and she are -ill-matched. I know you oughtn't to have married her at all, but that -doesn't matter—you've done it, and you've got to be fair to her. And -if you think that because I've confessed that I love you I'm in your power -for you to be cruel to, you're mistaken!" Her voice rose passionately. -</p> -<p> -He stared at her, admiring the warm flush that came into her cheeks, and -all the time pitying her, loving her, agonisingly! -</p> -<p> -"Understand," she went on, "You've got to look after Helen—you've got -to take care of her—watch her—do you know what I mean?" -</p> -<p> -"No. What do you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"I mean you must try to make her happy. She's sick and miserable, and, -somehow, you must cure her. I came here to see you because I thought I -could persuade you to be kind to her. I thought if you loved me at all, -you might do it for my sake. Remember I love Helen as well as you. Do -you still think I'm hard-hearted and cold? If you knew what goes on -inside me, the racking, raging longing—the— No, no—what's -the good of talking of that to you? You either understand or else you -don't, and if you don't, no words of mine will make you.... But I warn you -again, you must cure Helen of her unhappiness. Otherwise, she might try to -cure herself—in any way, drastic or not, that occurred to her. Do you -know now what I mean?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm afraid I don't, even yet." -</p> -<p> -"Well"—her voice became harder—"it's this, if you want plain -speaking. Watch her in case she kills herself. She's thinking of it." -</p> -<p> -He went ashen pale again and said quietly, after a long pause: "How do -you know that?" -</p> -<p> -"Her letter." -</p> -<p> -"She mentioned it?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"And that's what you've come to warn me about?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. And to persuade you, if I could——" -</p> -<p> -"Why did you decide that a personal visit was necessary?" -</p> -<p> -"I shouldn't have cared to tell you all this by letter. And besides, a -letter wouldn't have been nearly as quick, would it? You see I only -received her letter this morning. After all, the matter's urgent enough. -One can easily be too late." -</p> -<p> -He said, with eyes fixed steadily upon her: "Clare, you <i>are</i> too -late. She drowned herself last night." -</p> -<p> -He expected she would cry or break down or do something dramatic that he -could at any rate endure. But instead of that, she stared vacantly into -the fast-deepening gloom of the coppice, stared infinitely, terribly, -without movement or sound. Horror tore nakedly through her eyes like -pain, though not a muscle of her face stirred from that fearful, -statuesque immobility. Moments passed. Far over the intervening spaces -came the faint chiming of the half-hour on the town-hall clock, and -fainter still, but ominous-sounding, the swirl of the waves on the -distant beach as the wind rose and freshened. -</p> -<p> -He could not bear that silence and that stillness of hers. It seemed as -though it would be eternal. And suddenly he saw that she was really -suffering, excruciatingly; and he could not bear it, because he loved -her. And then all his plans for torturing her, all his desires for -vengeance, all his schemes to make her suffer as he had suffered, all the -hate of her that he had manufactured in his heart—all was suddenly -gone, like worthless dust scoured by the gale. He perceived that they -were one in suffering as in guilt—fate's pathetic flotsam, aching to -cling together even in the last despairing drift. -</p> -<p> -He cried, agonisingly: "Clare! Clare! Oh, for God's sake, don't stare at -me like that, Clare! Oh, my darling, my dear darling, I'm -sorry—sorry—I'm dead with sorrow! Clare—Clare—be -kind to me, Clare—kinder than I have been to you or to Helen! ..." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>VIII</h4> - -<p> -She said, quietly: "I must get back in time for my train." -</p> -<p> -"No, no—not yet. Don't go. Don't leave me." -</p> -<p> -"I must." -</p> -<p> -"No—no——" -</p> -<p> -"You know I must. Don't you?" -</p> -<p> -He became calmer. It was as if she had willed him to become calmer, as -if some of the calmness of her was passing over to him. "Clare," he -said, eagerly, "Do you think I'm <i>bad</i>—am -I—<i>rotten-souled</i>—because of what's happened? Am I -<i>damned</i>, do you think?" -</p> -<p> -She answered softly: "No. You're not. And you mustn't think you are. -Don't I love you? Would I love you if you were rotten? Would you love me -if <i>I</i> was?" -</p> -<p> -He replied, gritting his teeth: "I would love you if you were filth -itself." -</p> -<p> -"Ah, would you?" she answered, with wistful pathos in her voice. "But -I'm not like that. I love you for what I know you are, for what I know -you could be!" -</p> -<p> -"Could be? Could have been! But Clare, Clare—who's to blame?" -</p> -<p> -"So many things happen dreadfully in this world and nobody knows who's -to blame." -</p> -<p> -"But not this, Clare. <i>We're</i> to blame." -</p> -<p> -"We can be to blame without being—all that you said." -</p> -<p> -"Can we? Can we? There's another thing. If Helen had—had -lived—she would have had a baby in a few months' time...." -</p> -<p> -He paused, waiting for her reply, but none came. She went very pale. At -last she said, with strange unrestfulness: "What can I say? What <i>is</i> -there to say? ... Oh, don't let us go mad through thinking of it! We -<i>have</i> been wrong, but have we been as wrong as that? Hasn't there -been fate in it? Fate can do the awfullest things.... My dear, dear man, we -should go mad if we took all that load of guilt on ourselves! It is too -heavy for repentance.... Oh, you're not <i>bad</i>, not inwardly. And -neither am I. We've been instruments—puppets——" -</p> -<p> -"It's good to think so. But is it true?" -</p> -<p> -"Before God, I think it is.... Think of it all right from the -beginning.... Right from the night you met us both at Millstead.... It's -easy to blame fate for what we've done, but isn't it just as easy to -blame ourselves for the workings of fate?" -</p> -<p> -She added, uneasily: "I <i>must</i> go back. My train. Don't forget the -time." -</p> -<p> -"Can't you wait for the next?" -</p> -<p> -"<i>Dear</i>, you <i>know</i> I mustn't. How could I stay? Fate's -finished with us now. We've free-will.... Didn't I tell you we weren't -<i>bad</i>? All that's why I can't stay." -</p> -<p> -They began to walk back to the railway-station. A mist-like rain was -beginning to fall, and everything was swathed in grey dampness. They -talked together like two age-long friends, partners in distress and -suffering; he told her, carefully and undramatically, the story of the -night before. -</p> -<p> -She said to him, from the carriage-window just before the 3:18 steamed -out: "I shan't see you again for ever such a long while. I wish—I -wish I could stay with you and help you. But I can't.... You know why I -can't, don't you?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I know why. We must be brave alone. We must learn, if we can, to -call ourselves good again." -</p> -<p> -"Yes.... Yes.... We must start life anew. No more mistakes. And you must -grow back again to what you used to be.... The next few months will be -terrible—maddening—for both of us. But <i>I</i> can bear -them. Do you think <i>you</i> can—without me? If I thought you -couldn't"—her voice took on a sudden wild passion—"if I -thought you would break down under the strain, if I thought the fight -would crush and kill you, I would stay with you from this moment, and -never, never leave you alone! I would—I would—if I thought -there was no other way!" -</p> -<p> -He said, calmly and earnestly: "I can fight it, Clare. I shall not break -down. Trust me. And then—some day——" -</p> -<p> -She interrupted him hurriedly. "I am going abroad very soon. I don't -know for how long, but for a long while, certainly. And while I am away -I shall not write to you, and you must not write to me, either. Then, -when I come back ..." -</p> -<p> -He looked up into her eyes and smiled. -</p> -<p> -The guard was blowing his whistle. -</p> -<p> -"Be brave these next few months," she said again. -</p> -<p> -"I will," he answered. He added: "I shall go home." -</p> -<p> -"What? Home, Home to the millionaire soap-boiler?" (A touch of the old -half-mocking Clare.) -</p> -<p> -"Yes. It's my home. They've always been very good to me." -</p> -<p> -"Of course they have. I'm glad you've realised it." -</p> -<p> -Then the train began to move. "Good-bye!" she said, holding out her -hand. -</p> -<p> -"Good-bye!" he cried, taking it and clasping it quickly as he walked -along the platform with the train. "See you again," he added, almost in -a whisper. -</p> -<p> -She gave him such a smile, with tears streaming down her cheeks, as he -would never, never forget. -</p> -<p> -When he went out again into the station-yard the fine rain was falling -mercilessly. He felt miserable, sick with a new as well as an old -misery, but stirred by a hope that would never let him go. -</p> -<p> -Back then to the Beach Hotel, vowing and determining for the future, -facing in anticipation the ordeals of the dark days ahead, summoning up -courage and fortitude, bracing himself for terror and conflict and -desire.... And with it all hoping, hoping ... hoping everlastingly. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PASSIONATE YEAR ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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