MARGARET CRAVEN
1
It is essential to the maintenance of the Cambridge spirit that there
should be no melodrama. Into that placid and speculative air real
life tumbles with a resounding shock and the many souls that have been
building, these many years, with careful elaboration, walls of defence
and protection find themselves suddenly naked and indecent before the
world. For that army of men who use Cambridge as a gate to the world
in front of them the passage through the narrow streets is too swift to
afford more in after life than a pleasant reminiscence. It is because
Cambridge is the bridge between stern discipline and pleasant freedom
that it is so happily remembered; but there are those who adopt
Cambridge as their abiding home, and it is for these that real life is
impossible.
Beneath these grey walls as the years pass slowly the illusions grow.
Closer and closer creep the walls of experience, softer and thicker
are the garments worn to keep out the cold, gentler and gentler are
the speculations born of a good old Port and a knowledge of the Greek
language. About the High Tables voices softly dispute the turning of a
phrase, eyes mildly salute the careful dishes of a wisely chosen cook,
gentle patronage is bestowed upon the wild ruffian of the outer world.
Many bells ring, many fires are burning, many lamps are lit, many leaves
of many books are turned--busily, busily hands are raising walls of
self-defence; the world at first regretted, then patronized, is now
forgotten . . . hush, he sleeps, his feet in slippers, his head upon
the softest cushion, his hand still covering the broad page of his
dictionary. . . . Nothing, not birth nor love, nor death must disturb
his repose.
And here, in the heart of the Sannet Wood, is death from violence,
death, naked, crude, removed from all sense of life as we know it. The
High Tables avoid Carfax's body with all possible discretion; for an
hour or two the Port has lost its flavour, Homer is hidden by a
cloud, the gentle chatter is curtailed and silenced. Amongst the lower
order--those wild and turbulent undergraduates--it is the only topic.
Carfax is very generally known; he had ridden, he had rowed, he had
played cricket. A member of the only sporting club in the University, he
had been known as a "real sportsman and a damned good fellow" because he
was often drunk and frequently spent an evening in London . . . and now
he is dead.
In Saul's a number of very young spirits awake to the consciousness of
death. Here is a red-faced hearty fellow as fit as anything one moment
and dead the next. Never before had the fact been faced that this might
happen to any one. Let the High Table dismiss it easily, it is none
so simple for those who have not had time to build up those defending
walls. For a day or two there is a hush about the place, voices are
soft, men talk in groups, the mystery is the one sensation. . . . The
time passes, there are other interests, once more the High Table can
taste its wine. Death is again bundled into noisier streets, into a
harder, shriller air. . . .
2
Olva, on the morning after the discovery of the body, heard from Mrs.
Ridge speculations as to the probable criminal. "You take _my_ word, Mr.
Dune, sir, it was one of them there nasty tramps--always 'anging round
they are, and Miss Annett was only yesterday speakin' to me of a ugly
feller comin' round to their back door and askin' for bread, weren't
you, Miss Annett?"
"I was, indeed, Mrs. Ridge."
"And 'im with the nastiest 'eavy blue jaw you ever saw on a man, 'adn't
'e, Miss Annett?"
"He had, indeed, Mrs. Ridge."
"Ah, I shouldn't wonder--nasty-sort-o'-looking feller. And that
Sannet Wood too--nasty lonely place with its old stones and
all--comfortable?--I _don't_ think."
Olva made inquiries as to the stones.
"Why, ever so old, they say--before Christ, I've 'eard. Used to cut up
'uman flesh and eat it like the pore natives, and there's a ugly lookin'
stone in that very wood where they did it too, or so I've 'eard. Would
you go along that way in the dark, Miss Annett?"
"Not much--I grant _you_, Mrs. Ridge."
"Oh yes! not likely on a dark night, I _don't_ think!--and that pore Mr.
Carfax--well, all I say is, I 'opes they catch 'im, that's all _I_ say
. . ." with further reminiscence concerning Mrs. Birch who had worked
on Carfax's staircase the last ten years and never "'ad no kind of luck.
There was that Mr. Oliver---"
Final dismissal of Mrs. Ridge and Miss Annett.
Meanwhile, strange enough the relief that he felt because the body was
actually removed from that wood. No longer possible now to see it lying
there with the leg bent underneath, the head falling straight back, the
ring on the finger. . . . Curious, too, that the matchbox had not been
discovered; they must have searched pretty thoroughly by now--perhaps
after all it had not been dropped there.
But over him there had fallen a strange lassitude. He was outside,
beyond it all.
And then Craven came to see him. The event had wrought in the boy a
great change. It was precisely with a character like Craven's that such
an incident must cleave a division between youth and manhood. He had,
until last evening, considered nothing for himself; his father's death
had occurred when he was too young to see anything in it but a perfectly
natural removal of some one immensely old. The world had seemed the
easiest, the simplest of places, his years at Rugby had been delight.
Fully free from shocks of any kind. Good health, friendship, a little
learning, these things had made the days pass swiftly. Rupert Craven had
been yesterday, a child precisely typical of the system in which he
had been drilled; now he was something different. Olva knew that he was
capable of depths of feeling because of his extraordinary devotion to
his sister. Craven had often spoken of her to Olva--"So different
from me, the most brilliant person in the world. Her music is really
wonderful----people who know, I mean, all say so. But you see we're the
same age--only two of us. We've always been everything to one another."
Olva wondered why Craven had told him. It was not as though they had
ever been very intimate, but Craven seemed to think that Olva and his
sister would have much in common.
Olva wondered, as he looked at Craven standing there in the doorway, how
this sister would take the change in her brother. He had suddenly, as he
looked at Craven, a perception of the number of lives with whose course
his action had involved him. The wheel was beginning to turn. . . .
The light had gone from Craven's eyes. His vitality and energy had
slipped from him, leaving his body heavy, unalert. He seemed puzzled,
awed; there were dark lines under his eyes, his cheeks were pale and his
mouth had lost its tendency to smile, its lines were heavy; but, above
all, his expression was interrogative. Finally, he was puzzled.
For an instant, as he looked at him, Olva felt that he could not
face him, then with a deliberate summoning of the resources of his
temperament he strung himself to whatever the day might bring forth.
"This is awful----"
"Yes."
"Of course it doesn't matter to you, Dune, as it does to me, but I knew
the fellow so awfully well. It's horrible, horrible. That he should have
died--like that."
Olva broke out suddenly. "After all not such a bad way to die--swift
enough. I don't suppose Carfax valued life especially."
"Oh! he enjoyed it--enjoyed it like anything. And that it should be
taken so trivially, for no reason at all. It seems to be almost certain
that it was some tramp or other--robbery the motive probably, and then
he was startled and left the money--it was all lying about on the grass.
But then Carfax was mixed up with so many ruffians of one kind and
another. It may have been revenge or any-thing. I believe they are
searching the wood now, but they're not likely to bring it home to
any one. Misty day, no one about, and the man simply used his fist
apparently--he must have been most awfully strong. Have you ever heard
of any one killing a man with one blow--except a prize-fighter?"
"It's simply a knack, I believe, if you catch a fellow in a certain
spot."
Supposing that some wretched tramp were arrested and accused? Some dirty
fellow from behind a hedge? All the tramps, all the ruffians of the
world were now a danger. The accusation of another would bring the truth
from him of course. His dark eyes moved across the room to Craven's
white, tired face. Within himself there moved now with every hour
stirring more acutely this desire for life. If only they would let him
alone . . . let the body alone . . . let it all alone. Let the world
sink back to its earlier apathy.
His voice was resentful.
"Carfax wasn't a good fellow, Craven. No, I know--_Nil nini bonum_ . . .
and all the rest of it. But it looks a bit like a judgment--judgment
from Heaven."
Craven broke in.
"But now--just now when his body's lying there. I know there were things
he did. He was a bit wild, of course----"
"Yes, there was a girl, a girl in Midgett's tobacconist's shop--his
daughter. Carfax ruined her, body and soul . . . ruined her. He boasted
of it. Looks like a judgment."
"I don't care." Craven sprang up. "Carfax may have done things, but he
was a friend of mine, and a good friend. They _must_ catch the man, they
_must_. It's a duty they owe us all. To have such a man as that hanging
about. Why, it might happen to any of us. You must help me, Dune."
"Help you?"
"Yes--help them to catch the murderer. We must think of everything that
could make a clue. Perhaps this girl. I _had_ heard something about her,
of course; but perhaps there was another lover, a rival or something, or
perhaps her father----"
"Well," Dune said slowly, "my advice to you, Craven, is not to think too
much about the whole business. A thing like that is certain to get on
one's nerves--leave it alone as much as you can----"
"What a funny chap you are! You're always like that. As detached from
everything as though you weren't alive at all. Why, I believe, if you'd
committed the murder yourself you wouldn't be much more concerned!"
"Well, we've got to go on as we're made, I suppose, only _do_ take my
advice about not getting morbid over it. By the way, I see I'm playing
against St. Martin's this afternoon."
"Yes. I thought at first I wouldn't play. But I suppose it's better to
go on doing one's ordinary things. You're coming in to-night, aren't
you?
"Are you sure you want me after all this disturbance?
"Why, of course; my mother's expecting you. Half-past seven. Don't
dress." He raised his arms above his head, yawning. He was obviously
better for the talk. His eyes were less strained, his body more alert.
"I'm tired to death. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night--saw poor
Carfax in the dark--ugh! Well, we meet this afternoon."
When the door closed Olva had the sensation of having been on his trial.
Craven's eyes still followed him. Nerves, of course . . . but they had
strangely reminded him of Bunker.
3
Olva had never been to Craven's house before. It stood in a little
street that joined Cambridge to the country. At one end of the prim
little road the lamps stopped abruptly and a white chalk path ran
amongst dark common to a distant wood.
At the other end a broader road with tram-lines crossed. The house was
built by itself, back from the highway, with a tiny drive and some dark
laurels. It was always gloomy and apparently unkept. The autumn leaves
were dull and sodden upon the drive; the bell and knocker upon the heavy
door, from which the paint was worn in places, were rusty. No sound came
from the little road beyond.
The place seemed absolutely without life. Olva now, as he sent the
bell pealing through the passages, knew that this dark desertion had an
effect upon his nerves. A week ago he would not have noticed the place
at all--now he longed for lights and noise and company. He had played
foot-ball that afternoon better than ever before; that, too, had been a
defence, almost a protest, an assertion of his right to live.
As he waited his thoughts pursued him. He had heard them say to-night
that no clue had been discovered, that the police were entirely at
a loss. It was impossible to trace foot-marks amongst all that
undergrowth. No one had been seen in that direction during the hours
when the murder must have been committed . . . so on--so on . . . all
this talk, this discussion. The wretched man was dead--no one would miss
him--no one cared--leave him alone, leave him alone. Olva pulled the
bell again furiously. Why couldn't they come? He wanted to escape from
this dark and dismal drive; these hanging laurels, the cold little
road, with its chilly lamps. An old and tottering woman, her nose nearly
touching her chin and her fingers in black mittens, opened at last and
led Olva into the very blackest and closest little hall that he had ever
encountered. The air was thick and musty with a strangely mingled smell
of burning wood, of faded pot-pourri, of dried skins. The ceiling was
low and black, and the only window was one of a dull red glass that
glimmered mournfully at a distance. The walls were hung with the
strangest things, prizes apparently that the late Dr. Craven had
secured in China--grinning heathen gods, uncouth weapons, dried skins of
animals. Out of this dark little hall Olva was led into a drawing-room
that was itself nearly as obscure. Here the ceiling was higher, but the
place square and dark; a deep set stone fireplace in which logs were
burning was the most obvious thing there. For the rest the floor seemed
littered with old twisted tables, odd chairs with carved legs, here a
plate with sea shells, here a glass case with some pieces of ribbon,
old rusty coins, silver ornaments. There were many old prints upon the
walls, landscapes, some portraits, and stuck here and there elaborate
arrangements of silk and ribbon and paper fans and coloured patterns.
Opposite the dark diamond-paned window was an old gilt mirror that
seemed to catch all the room into its dusty and faded reflections, and
to make what was old and tattered enough already, doubly dreary. The
room had the close and musty air of the hall as though windows were but
seldom opened; there was a scent as though oranges had recently been
eaten there.
At first Olva had thought that he was alone in the room; then when
his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light he saw, sitting in a
high-backed chair, motionless, gazing into the fire, with her fine white
hands lying in her lap, a lady. She reminded him, in that first vision
of her, of "Phiz's" pictures of Mrs. Clennam in _Little Dorrit_, and
always afterwards that connection remained with him. Her thin, spare
figure had something intense, almost burning, in its immobility, in the
deep black of her dress and hair, in the white sharpness of the outline
of her face.
How admirably, it seemed to him, she suited that room. She too may
have thought as she turned slowly to look at him that he fitted his
background, with the spare dignity of his figure, his fine eyes, the
black and white contrast of his body so that his cheeks, his hands,
seemed almost to shine against the faded air. It is certain that they
recognized at once some common ground so that they met as though they
had known one another for many years. The old minor caught for a moment
the fine gravity and silence of his approach to her as he waited for her
to greet him.
But before she could speak to him the door had opened and Margaret
Craven entered. In her gravity, her silence, she seemed at once to claim
kinship with them both. She had the black hair, the pale face, the sharp
outline of her mother. As she came quietly towards them her reserve was
wonderful, but there was tenderness in the soft colour of her eyes,
in the lines of her mouth that made her also beautiful. But beyond the
tenderness there was also an energy that made every move seem like an
attack. In spite of her reserve there was impatience, and Olva's first
judgment of her was that the last thing in the world that she could
endure was muddle; she shone with the clean-cut decision of fine steel.
Mrs. Craven spoke without rising from her chair.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Dune, Rupert has often told us about
you."
Margaret advanced to him and held out her hand. She looked him straight
in the eyes.
"We have met before, you know."
"I had not forgotten," he answered her gravely.
Then Rupert came in. It was strange how one saw now, when he stood
beside his mother and sister, that he had some of their quality of stern
reserve. He had always seemed to Olva a perfectly ordinary person of
natural good health and good temper, and now this quality that had
descended upon him increased the fresh attention that he had already
during these last two days demanded. For something beyond question the
Carfax affair must be held responsible. It seemed now to be the only
thing that could hold his mind. He spoke very little, but his white
face, his tired eyes, his listless conversation, showed the occupation
of his mind. It was indeed a melancholy evening.
To Olva, his nerves being already on edge, it was almost intolerable.
They passed from the drawing-room into a tiny dining-room--a room that
was as dingy and faded as the rest, with a dull red paper on the walls
and an old blue carpet. The old woman waited; the food was of the
simplest.
Mrs. Craven scarcely spoke at all. She sat with her eyes gravely fixed
in front of her, save when she raised them to flash them for an instant
at Olva. He found this sudden gaze extraordinarily disconcerting; it was
as though she were reasserting her claim to some common understanding
that existed between them, to some secret that belonged to them alone.
They avoided, for the most part, Carfax's death. Once Margaret Craven
said: "One of the most astonishing things about anything of this kind
seems to me the bravery of the murderer--the bravery I mean that is
demanded of any one during the days between the crime and his arrest.
To be in possession of that tremendous secret, to be at war, as it
were, with the world, and yet to lead, in all probability, an ordinary
life--that demands courage."
"One may accustom oneself to anything," Mrs. Craven said. Her voice was
deep and musical, and her words seemed to linger almost like an echo in
the air.
Olva thought as he looked at Margaret Craven that there was a strength
there that could face anything; it was more than courage; it might,
under certain circumstances, become fanaticism. But he knew that whereas
Mrs. Craven stirred in him a deep restlessness and disquiet, Margaret
Craven quieted and soothed him, almost, it seemed, deliberately, as
though she knew that he was in trouble.
He said: "I should think that his worst enemy, if he have any
imagination at all, must be his loneliness. I can conceive that the
burden of the secret, even though there be no chance whatever of
discovery, must make that loneliness intolerable."
Here Rupert Craven interrupted as though he were longing to break away
from the subject.
"You played the finest game of your life this afternoon, Dune. I
never saw anything like that last try of yours. Whymper was on the
touch-line--I saw him. The 'Varsity's certain to try you again on
Saturday."
"I've been slack too long," Olva said, laughing. "I never enjoyed
anything more than this afternoon."
"I played the most miserable game I've ever played--couldn't get this
beastly thing out of my head."
Olva felt as though he were almost at the end of his endurance. At that
moment he thought that he would have preferred them to burst the doors
and arrest him. He had never known such fatigue. If he could sleep he
did not care what happened to him.
The rest of the evening seemed a dream. The dark, crowded drawing-room
flickered in the light from the crackling fire. Mrs. Craven, in her
stiff chair, never moving her eyes, flung shadows on the walls. Some
curtain blew drearily, with little secret taps, against the door. Rupert
Craven sat moodily in a dark corner.
At Olva's request Margaret Craven played. The piano was old and needed
attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing. First
she gave him some modern things--some Debussy, _Les Miroires_ of Ravel,
some of the Russian ballet music of _Cleopatre_. These she flung at him,
fiercely, aggressively, playing them as though she would wring cries of
protest from the very notes.
"There," she cried when she had finished, flashing a look that was
almost indignant at him. "There is your modern stuff--I can give you
more of it."
"I would like something better now," he said gravely.
Without a word that mood left her. In the dim candle-light her eyes
were tender again. Very softly she played the first two movements of the
"Moonlight" sonata.
"I am not in the mood for the last movement," she said, and closed the
piano. Still about the old silver, the dark walls, the log fire, the old
gilt mirror, the sweet, delicate notes lingered.
Soon afterwards he left them. As he passed down the chill, deserted
street, abandoning the dark laurelled garden, he saw behind him the
stern shadow of Mrs. Craven black upon the wall.
But the loneliness, the unrest, walked behind him. Silence was beginning
to be terrible. God--this God--this Unknown God--pursued him. Only a
little comfort out of the very heart of that great pursuing shadow came
to him--Margaret Craven's grave and tender eyes.