MEN AS TOWERS.
It was May morning, and Taffy made one of the group gathered on the
roof of Magdalen Tower. In the groves below and across the river
meadows all the birds were singing together. Beyond the glimmering
suburbs, St. Clement’s and Cowley St. John, over the dark rise by
Bullingdon Green, the waning moon seemed to stand still and wait,
poised on her nether horn. Below her the morning sky waited, clean
and virginal, letting her veil of mist slip lower and lower until it
rested in folds upon Shotover. While it dropped a shaft of light
tore through it and smote flashing on the vane high above Taffy’s
head, turning the dark side of the turrets to purple and casting
lilac shadows on the surplices of the choir. For a moment the whole
dewy shadow of the tower trembled on the western sky, and melted and
was gone as a flood of gold broke on the eastward-turned faces.
The clock below struck five and ceased. There was a sudden baring of
heads; a hush; and gently, borne aloft on boys’ voices, clear and
strong, rose the first notes of the hymn--
“Te Deum Patrem colimus,
Te laudibus prosequimur,
Qui corpus cibo reficis,
Coelesti mentem gratia.”
In the pauses Taffy heard, faint and far below, the noise of cowhorns
blown by the street boys gathered at the foot of the tower and beyond
the bridge. Close beside him a small urchin of a chorister was
singing away with the face of an ecstatic seraph; whence that ecstasy
arose the urchin would have been puzzled to tell. There flashed into
Taffy’s brain the vision of the whole earth lauding and adoring--
sun-worshippers and Christians, priests and small children; nation
after nation prostrating itself and arising to join the chant--
“the differing world’s agreeing sacrifice.” Yes, it was Praise that
made men brothers; Praise, the creature’s first and last act of
homage to his Creator; Praise that made him kin with the angels.
Praise had lifted this tower; had expressed itself in its soaring
pinnacles; and he for the moment was incorporate with the tower and
part of its builder’s purpose. “Lord, make men as towers!”--he
remembered his father’s prayer in the field by Tewkesbury, and at
last he understood. “All towers carry a lamp of some kind”--why, of
course they did. He looked about him. The small chorister’s face
was glowing--
“Triune Deus, hominum
Salutis auctor optime,
Immensum hoc mysterium
Ovante lingua canimus!”
Silence--and then with a shout the tunable bells broke forth, rocking
the tower. Someone seized Taffy’s college cap and sent it spinning
over the battlements. Caps? For a second or two they darkened the
sky like a flock of birds. A few gowns followed, expanding as they
dropped, like clumsy parachutes. The company--all but a few severe
dons and their friends--tumbled laughing down the ladder, down the
winding stair, and out into sunshine. The world was pagan after all.
At breakfast Taffy found a letter on his table, addressed in his
mother’s hand. As a rule she wrote twice a week, and this was not
one of the usual days for hearing from her. But nothing was too good
to happen that morning. He snatched up the letter and broke the
seal.
“My dearest boy,” it ran, “I want you home at once to consult with
me. Something has happened (forgive me, dear, for not preparing you;
but the blow fell on me yesterday so suddenly)--something which makes
it doubtful, and more than doubtful, that you can continue at Oxford.
And something else _they say_ has happened which I will never believe
in unless I hear it from my boy’s lips. I have this comfort, at any
rate, that he will never tell me a falsehood. This is a matter which
cannot be explained by letter, and cannot wait until the end of term.
Come home quickly, dear; for until you are here I can have no peace
of mind.”
So once again Taffy travelled homewards by the night mail.
“Mother, it’s a lie!”
Taffy’s face was hot, but he looked straight into his mother’s eyes.
She too was rosy-red: being ever a shamefast woman. And to speak of
these things to her own boy--
“Thank God!” she murmured, and her fingers gripped the arms of her
chair.
“It’s a lie! Where is the girl?”
“She is in the workhouse, I believe. I don’t know who spread it, or
how many have heard. But Honoria believes it.”
“Honoria! She cannot--” He came to a sudden halt. “But, mother,
even supposing Honoria believes it, I don’t see--”
He was looking straight at her. Her eyes sank. Light began to break
in on him.
“Mother!”
Humility did not look up.
“Mother! Don’t tell me that she--that Honoria--”
“She made us promise--your father and me.... God knows it did no
more than repay what your father had suffered.... Your future was
everything to us....”
“And I have been maintained at Oxford by her money,” he said, pausing
in his bitterness on every word.
“Not by that only, Taffy! There was your scholarship... and it
was true about my savings on the lace-work....”
But he brushed her feeble explanations away with a little gesture of
impatience. “Oh why, mother?--Oh why?”
She heard him groan and stretched out her arms.
“Taffy, forgive me--forgive us! We did wrongly, I see--I see it as
plain now as you. But we did it for your sake.”
“You should have told me. I was not a child. Yes, yes, you should
have told me.”
Yes; there lay the truth. They had treated him as a child when he
was no longer a child. They had swathed him round with love,
forgetting that boys grow and demand to see with their own eyes and
walk on their own feet. To every mother of sons there comes sooner
or later the sharp lesson which came to Humility that morning; and
few can find any defence but that which Humility stammered, sitting
in her chair and gazing piteously up at the tall youth confronting
her: “I did it for your sake.” Be pitiful, oh accusing sons, in that
hour! For, terrible as your case may be against them, your mothers
are speaking the simple truth.
Taffy took her hand. “The money must be paid back, every penny of
it.”
“Yes, dear.”
“How much?”
Humility kept a small account-book in the work-box beside her.
She opened the pages, but, seeing his outstretched hand, gave it
obediently to Taffy, who took it to the window.
“Almost two hundred pounds.” He knit his brows and began to drum with
his fingers on the window-pane. “And we must put the interest at
five per cent.... With my first in Moderations I might find some
post as an usher in a small school.... There’s an agency which
puts you in the way of such things: I must look up the address....
We will leave this house, of course.”
“Must we?”
“Why of course we must. We are living here by _her_ favour.
A cottage will do--only it must have four rooms, because of
grandmother.... I will step over and talk with Mendarva.
He may be able to give me a job. It will keep me going, at any rate,
until I hear from the agency.”
“You forget that I have over forty pounds a year--or, rather, mother
has. The capital came from the sale of her farm, years ago.”
“Did it?” said Taffy grimly. “You forget that I have never been
told. Well, that’s good, so far as it goes. But now I’ll step over
and see Mendarva. If only I could catch this cowardly lie somewhere
on my way!”
He kissed his mother, caught up his cap, and flung out of the house.
The sea breeze came humming across the sandhills. He opened his
lungs to it, and it was wine to his blood; he felt strong enough to
slay dragons. “But who could the liar be? Not Lizzie herself,
surely! Not--”
He pulled up short in a hollow of the towans.
“Not--George?”
Treachery is a hideous thing; and to youth so incomprehensibly
hideous that it darkens the sun. Yet every trusting man must be
betrayed. That was one of the lessons of Christ’s life on earth.
It is the last and severest test; it kills many, morally, and no man
who has once met and looked it in the face departs the same man,
though he may be a stronger one.
“_Not George?_”
Taffy stood there so still that the rabbits crept out and, catching
sight of him, paused in the mouths of their burrows. When at length
he moved on it was to take, not the path which wound inland to
Mendarva’s, but the one which led straight over the higher moors to
Carwithiel.
It was between one and two o’clock when he reached the house and
asked to see Mr. and Mrs. George Vyell, They were not at home, the
footman said; had left for Falmouth the evening before to join some
friends on a yachting cruise. Sir Harry was at home; was, indeed,
lunching at that moment; but would no doubt be pleased to see Mr.
Raymond.
Sir Harry had finished his lunch, and sat sipping his claret and
tossing scraps of biscuits to the dogs.
“Hullo, Raymond!--thought you were in Oxford. Sit down, my boy;
delighted to see you. Thomas, a knife and fork for Mr. Raymond.
The cutlets are cold, I’m afraid; but I can recommend the cold
saddle, and the ham--it’s a York ham. Go to the sideboard and forage
for yourself. I wanted company. My boy and Honoria are at Falmouth
yachting, and have left me alone. What, you won’t eat? A glass of
claret, then, at any rate.”
“To tell the truth, Sir Harry,” Taffy began awkwardly. “I’ve come on
a disagreeable business.”
Sir Harry’s face fell. He hated disagreeable business. He flipped a
piece of biscuit at his spaniel’s nose and sat back, crossing his
legs.
“Won’t it keep?”
“To me it’s important.”
“Oh, fire away then: only help yourself to the claret first.”
“A girl--Lizzie Pezzack, living over at Langona--has had a child
born--”
“Stop a moment. Do I know her?--Ah, to be sure--daughter of old
Pezzack, the light-keeper--a brown-coloured girl with her hair over
her eyes. Well, I’m not surprised. Wants money, I suppose?
Who’s the father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, but--damn it all!--somebody knows.” Sir Harry reached for the
bottle and refilled his glass.
“The one thing I know is that Honoria--Mrs. George, I mean--has heard
about it, and suspects me.”
Sir Harry lifted his glass and glanced at him over the rim.
“That’s the devil. Does she, now?” He sipped. “She hasn’t been
herself for a day or two--this explains it. I thought it was change
of air she wanted. She’s in the deuce of a rage, you bet.”
“She is,” said Taffy grimly.
“There’s no prude like your young married woman. But it’ll blow
over, my boy. My advice to you is to keep out of the way for a
while.”
“But--but it’s a lie!” broke in the indignant Taffy. “As far as I am
concerned there’s not a grain of truth in it!”
“Oh--I beg your pardon, I’m sure.” Here Honoria’s terrier (the one
which George had bought for her at Plymouth) interrupted by begging
for a biscuit, and Sir Harry balanced one carefully on its nose.
“On trust--good dog! What does the girl say herself?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not seen her.”
“Then, my dear fellow--it’s awkward, I admit--but I’m dashed if I see
what you expect me to do.” The baronet pulled out a handkerchief and
began flicking the crumbs off his knees.
Taffy watched him for a minute in silence. He was asking himself why
he had come. Well, he had come in a hot fit of indignation, meaning
to face Honoria and force her to take back the insult of her
suspicion. But after all--suppose George were at the bottom of it?
Clearly Sir Henry knew nothing, and in any case could not be asked to
expose his own son. And Honoria? Let be that she would never
believe--that he had no proof, no evidence even--this were a pretty
way of beginning to discharge his debt to her! The terrier thrust a
cold muzzle against his hand. The room was very still. Sir Harry
poured out another glassful and held out the decanter. “Come, you
must drink; I insist!”
Taffy looked up. “Thank you, I will.”
He could now and with a clear conscience. In those quiet moments he
had taken the great resolution. The debt should be paid back, and
with interest; not at five per cent., but at a rate beyond the
creditor’s power of reckoning. For the interest to be guarded for
her should be her continued belief in the man she loved. Yes,
_but if George were innocent?_ Why, then the sacrifice would be
idle; that was all.
He swallowed the wine, and stood up.
“Must you be going? I wanted a chat with you about Oxford,” grumbled
Sir Harry; but noting the lad’s face, how white and drawn it was, he
relented, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t take it too
seriously, my boy. It’ll blow over--it’ll blow over. Honoria likes
you, I know. We’ll see what the trollop says: and if I get a chance
of putting in a good word, you may depend on me.”
He walked with Taffy to the door--good, easy man--and waved a hand
from the porch. On the whole, he was rather glad than not to see his
young friend’s back.
From his smithy window Mendarva spied Taffy coming along the road,
and stepped out on the green to shake hands with him.
“Pleased to see your face, my son! You’ll excuse my not asking
’ee inside; but the fact is”--he jerked his thumb towards the
smithy--“we’ve a-got our troubles in there.”
It came on our youth with something of a shock that the world had
room for any trouble beside his own.
“’Tis the Dane. He went over to Truro yesterday to the wrastlin’,
an’ got thrawed. I tell’n there’s no call to be shamed. ’Twas Luke
the Wendron fella did it--in the treble play--inside lock backward,
and as pretty a chip as ever I see.” Mendarva began to illustrate it
with foot and ankle, but checked himself, and glanced nervously over
his shoulder. “Isn’ lookin’, I hope? He’s in a terrible pore about
it. Won’t trust hissel’ to spake, and don’t want to see nobody.
But, as I tell’n, there’s no call to be shamed; the fella took the
belt in the las’ round, and turned his man over like a tab. He’s a
proper angletwitch, that Wendron fella. Stank ’pon en both ends, and
he’ll rise up in the middle and look at ’ee. There was no one a
patch on en but the Dane; and I’ll back the Dane next time they
clinch. ’Tis a nuisance, though, to have’n like this--with a big job
coming on, too, over to the light-house.”
Taffy looked steadily at the smith. “What’s doing at the
light-house?”
“Ha’n’t ’ee heerd?” Mendarva began a long tale, the sum of which was
that the light-house had begun of late to show signs of age, to rock
at times in an ominous manner. The Trinity House surveyor had been
down and reported, and Mendarva had the contract for some immediate
repairs. “But ’tis patching an old kettle, my son. The foundations
be clamped down to the rock, and the clamps have worked loose.
The whole thing’ll have to come down in the end; you mark my words.”
“But, these repairs?” Taffy interrupted: “You’ll be wanting hands.”
“Why, o’ course.”
“And a foreman--a clerk of the works--”
While Mendarva was telling his tale, over a hill two miles to the
westward a small donkey-cart crawled for a minute against the
sky-line and disappeared beyond the ridge which hid the towans.
An old man trudged at the donkey’s head; and a young woman sat in the
cart with a bundle in her arms.
The old man trudged along so deep in thought that when the donkey
without rhyme or reason came to a halt, half-way down the hill, he
too halted, and stood pulling a wisp of grey side-whiskers.
“Look here,” he said. “You ent goin’ to tell? That’s your las’
word, is it?”
The young woman looked down on the bundle and nodded her head.
“There, that’ll do. If you weant, you weant; I’ve tek’n ’ee back,
an’ us must fit and make the best o’t. The cheeld’ll never be good
for much--born lame like that. But ’twas to be, I s’pose.”
Lizzie sat dumb, but hugged the bundle closer.
“’Tis like a judgment. If your mother’d been spared, ’twudn’ have
happened. But ’twas to be, I s’pose. The Lord’s ways be past
findin’ out.”
He woke up and struck the donkey across the rump.
“Gwan you! Gee up! What d’ee mean by stoppin’ like that?”