STONE ALTARS
1
Carfax was buried. There had been an inquest; certain tramps and
wanderers had been arrested, examined and dismissed. No discovery had
been made, and a verdict of Wilful "Wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown" had been returned. It was generally felt that Carfax's
life had not been of the most savoury and that there were, in all
probability, amongst the back streets of Cambridge several persons who
had owed him a grudge. He appeared, indeed, in the discoveries that were
now made on every side, to be something better dead than alive. A stout
and somnolent gentleman, with red cheeks and eyes half closed, was the
only mourner from the outside world at the funeral. This, it appeared,
was an uncle. Father dead, mother divorced and leading a pleasant
existence amongst the capitals of Europe. The uncle, although
maintaining a decent appearance of grief, was obviously, at heart,
relieved to be rid of his nephew so easily. Poor Carfax! For so rubicund
and noisy a person he left strangely little mark upon the world. Within
a fortnight the college had nearly lost account of his existence. He
lent to Sannet Wood a sinister air that caused numberless undergraduates
to cycle out in that direction. Now and again, when conversation
flagged, some one revived the subject. But it was a horse that needed
much whipping to make it go. It had kicked with its violent hoof upon
the soft walls of Cambridge life. For a moment it had seemed that it
would force its way, but the impression had been of the slightest.
Even within the gates and courts of Saul's itself the impression that
Carfax had left faded with surprising swiftness into a melodramatic
memory. But nothing could have been more remarkable than the resolute
determination of these young men to push grim facts away. They were
not made--one could hear it so eloquently explained--for that kind of
tragedy. The autumn air, the furious exercise, the hissing kettles, the
decent and amiable discussions on Life reduced to the importance of a
Greek Accent--these things rejected violently the absurdity of Tragic
Crudity.
They were quite right, these young men. They paid their shining pounds
for the capture--conscious or not as it might be--of an atmosphere, a
delicate and gentle setting to the crudity of their later life. Carfax,
when alive, had blundered into coarse disaster but had blundered in back
streets. Now the manner of his death painted him in shrieking colours.
The harmony was disturbed, therefore he must go.
Of more importance to this world of Saul's was the strange revival--as
though from the dead--of Olva Dune. They had been prepared, many of
them, for some odd development, but this perfectly normal, healthy
interest in the affairs of the College was the last thing that his
grave, romantic air could ever have led any one to expect. His football
in the first place opened wide avenues of speculation. First there had
been the College game, then there had been the University match against
the Harlequins, and it was, admittedly, a very long time since any
one had seen anything like it. He had seemed, in that game against the
Harlequins, to possess every virtue that should belong to the ideal
three-quarter--pace, swerve, tackle, and through them all the steady
working of the brain. Nevertheless those earlier games were yet
remembered against him, and it was confidently said that this
brilliance, with a man of Dune's temperament, could not possibly last.
But, nevertheless, the expectation of his success brought him up, with
precipitation, against the personality of Cardillac, and it was this
implied rivalry that agitated the College. It is only in one's second
year that a matter of this kind can assume world-shaking importance.
The First-year Undergraduate is too near the child, the Third-year
Undergraduate too near the man. For the First-year man School, for the
Third-year man the World looms too heavily. So it is from the men of
the Second year that the leaders are to be selected, and at this time in
Saul's Cardillac seemed to have no rival. He combined, to an admirable
degree, the man of the world and the sportsman; he had an air that was
beyond rubies. He was elegant without being effeminate, arrogant without
being conceited, indifferent without being blase. He had learnt, at
Eton, and at the knee of a rich and charming mother, that to be crude
was the unforgivable sin. He worshipped the god of good manners and
would have made an admirable son of the great Lord Chesterfield. Finally
he was the only man in Saul's who had any "air" at all, and he had
already travelled round the world and been introduced by his mother to
Royalty at Marienbad.
The only man who could ever have claimed any possible rivalry was Dune,
and Dune had seemed determined, until now, to avoid any-thing of
the kind. Suddenly the situation leapt upon the startled eyes of the
attentive world. Possibility of excitement. . . .
2
Olva, himself, was entirely unconcerned by this threatened rivalry. He
was being driven, by impulses that he understood only too well, into the
noisiest life that he could manage to find about him. The more noise the
better; he had only a cold fear at his heart that, after all, it would
penetrate his dreaded loneliness too little, let it be as loud a noise
as he could possibly summon.
He had not now--and this was the more terrible--any consciousness of
Carfax at all; there was waiting for him, lurking, beast-like, until its
inevitable moment, something far more terrible.
Meanwhile he made encounters. . . . There was Bunning. The Historical
Society in Saul's was held together by the Senior Tutor. This gentleman,
a Mr. Gregg, was thin, cadaverous, blue-chinned, mildly insincere. It
was his view of University life that undergraduates were born yesterday
and would believe anything that you told them. In spite, however, of
their tender years there was a lurking ferocity that must be checked by
an indulgent heartiness of manner, as one might offer a nut to a monkey.
His invariable manner of salutation--"_Come_ along, Simter--the very man
I wanted to see"--lost its attraction through much repetition, and the
hearty assumption on the amiable gentleman's part that "we are all
boys together" froze many undergraduates into a chill and indifferent
silence. He had not taken Holy Orders, but he gave, nevertheless, the
effect of adopting the language of the World, the Flesh and the Devil in
order that he might the better spy out the land. He attracted, finally,
to himself certain timid souls who preferred insincere comfort to none
at all, but he was hotly rejected by more able-bodied persons.
Nevertheless the Historical Society prospered, and Olva one evening,
driven he knew not by what impulse, attended its meeting. When he
entered Mr. Gregg's room some dozen men were already seated there. The
walls were hung with groups in which a younger and even thinner Mr.
Gregg was displayed, a curious figure in "shorts." On one side of the
room two oars were hung and over the mantelpiece (littered with pipes)
there were photographs of the "Mona Lisa" and Da Vinci's "Last Supper."
The men in the room were embarrassed and silent. Under a strong light a
minute undergraduate with enormous spectacles sat, white and trembling;
it was obviously he who was to read the paper.
Mr. Gregg came forward heartily. "Why, Dune, this is quite splendid! The
very man! Why, it is long since you've honoured our humble gathering.
Baccy? That's right. Help yourself. Erdington's going to read to us
about the Huns and stand a fire of questions afterwards, aren't you,
Erdington?"
The youth in spectacles gulped.
"_That's_ right. _That's_ right. Comfortable now, Dune? Got all you
want? _That's_ right. Now we can begin, I think. Minutes of the last
meeting, Stevens."
Olva placed himself in a corner and looked round the room. He found that
most of the men were freshmen whose faces he did not know, but there,
moving his fat body uneasily on a chair, was Bunning, and there, to his
intense surprise, was Lawrence. That football hero was lounging with
half-closed eyes in a large armchair. His broad back looked as though
it would burst the wooden arms, and his plain, good-natured face beamed,
through a cloud of smoke, upon the company. Below his short, light
grey flannel trousers were bright purple socks. He had the body of a
bullock--short, thick, broad, strong, thoroughly well calculated to
withstand the rushes of oncoming three-quarters. Various freshmen flung
timid glances at the hero every now and again; it was to them an event
that they might have, for a whole hour, closely under their observation,
this king among men.
Olva wondered at his presence. He remembered that Lawrence was taking
a "pass" degree in History. He knew also that Lawrence somewhere in the
depths of his slow brain had a thirst for knowledge and at the same time
a certain assurance that he would never acquire any. His slow voice, his
slow smile, the great, heavy back, the short thick legs attracted Olva;
there was something simple and primeval here that appealed to the Dune
blood. Moreover, since the afternoon when Olva had played against
the Harlequins and covered himself with glory, Lawrence had shown a
disposition to make friends. Old Lawrence might be stupid, but, as a
background, he was the most important man in the College. His slow,
lumbering body as it rolled along the Court was followed by the eyes of
countless freshmen. His appearance on the occasion of a College concert
was the signal for an orgy of applause. Cardillac might lead the
College, but he was, nevertheless, of common clay. Lawrence was of the
gods!
Swift contrast the fat and shapeless Bunning! As the tremulous and
almost tearful voice of little Erdington continued the solemn and dreary
exposition of the Huns, Olva felt increasingly that Bunning's eye was
upon him. Olva had not seen the creature since the night of the revival,
and he was irritated with himself for the persistence of his interest.
The man's pluck had, in the first place, struck him, but now it seemed
to him that they were, in some undefinable measure, linked together. As
Olva watched him, half contemptuously, half sarcastically, he tried
to pin his brain down to the actual, definite connection. It seemed
ultimately to hang round that dreadful evening when they had been
together; it was almost---although this was absurd--as though Bunning
knew; but, in spite of the certain assurance of his ignorance Olva
felt as he moved uneasily under Bunning's gaze that the man himself was
making some claim upon him. It was evident that Bunning was unhappy;
he looked as though he had not slept; his face was white and puffy, his
eyes dark and heavy. He was paying no attention to the "Huns," but was
trying, obviously, to catch Olva's eye. As the reading progressed Olva
became more and more uneasy. It showed the things that must be happening
to his nerves. He had now that sensation that had often come to him
lately that some one was waiting for him outside the door. He imagined
that the man next to him, a spotty, thin and restless freshman, would
suddenly turn to him and say quite casually--"By the way, you killed
Carfax, didn't you?" Above all he imagined himself suddenly rising in
his place and saying---"Yes, gentlemen, this is all very well, very
interesting I'm sure, but I killed Carfax."
His tortured brain was being driven, compelled to these utterances.
Behind him still he felt that pursuing cloud; one day it would catch him
and, out of the heart of it, there would leap . . .
And all this because Bunning looked at him. It was becoming now a
habit--so general that it was instinctive--that, almost unconsciously,
he should, at a point like this, pull at his nerves. "They are watching
you; they are watching you. Don't let them see you like this; pull
yourself together. . . ."
He did. Little Erdington's voice ceased. Mr. Gregg was heard saying:
"It has always occurred to me that the Huns . . . " and then, after many
speeches: "How does this point of view strike you, Erdington?"
It didn't strike Erdington very strongly, and there was no other person
present who seemed to be struck in any very especial direction. The
discussion, therefore, quickly flagged. Olva escaped Bunning's pleading
eyes, found his gown amongst a heap in the corner, and avoiding Mr.
Gregg's pressing invitation to stay, plunged down the stairs. Behind
him, then, making his heart leap into his mouth, was a slow, thick
voice.
"I say, Dune, what do you say to a little drink in my room after
all that muck?" Above him, in the dark shadow of the stair, loomed
Lawrence's thick body.
"I shall be delighted," Olva said.
Lawrence came lumbering down. He always spoke as though words were a
difficulty to him. He left out any word that was not of vital necessity.
"Muck that-awful muck. What do they want gettin' a piffler like that kid
in the glasses to read his ideas? Ain't got any--not one--no more 'an I
have."
They reached the Court--it swam softly in the moonlight--stars burnt,
here and there, in a trembling sky.
Lawrence put his great arm through Olva's. "Rippin' game that o' yours
yesterday. Rippin'." He seemed to lick his lips over it as a gourmet
over a delicate dish.
Lawrence pursued his slow thoughts.
"I say, you know, you--re one of these clever ones--thinkin' an' writin'
an' all that--an' _yet_ you play footer like an archangel--a blarsted
archangel. Lucky devil!" He sighed heavily. "Every time I put on my
footer boots," he pursued, "I say to myself, 'What you'd be givin',
Jerry Lawrence, if you could just go and write a book! What you'd give!
But it ain't likely--my spellin's somethin' shockin'."
Here there was interruption. Several men came rattling; laughing and
shouting, down the staircase behind Lawrence and Olva.
"Oh, damn!" said Lawrence, slowly turning round upon them. Cardillac was
there, also Bobby Galleon, Rupert Craven, and one or two more.
Cardillac shouted. "Hul_lo_, Lawrence, old man. Is it true, as they say,
that you've been sitting at the feet of our dearly beloved Gregg? How
splendid for you!"
"I've been at our Historical Society hearin' about the Huns, and
therefore there's compellin' necessity for a drink," Lawrence said,
moving in the direction of his room.
"Oh! rot, don't go in yet. We're thinking of going round and paying
Bunning a visit in another ten minutes. He's going to have a whole lot
of men in for a prayer-meeting. Thompson's just brought word."
Thompson, a wretched creature in the Second Year, who had, during his
first term, been of the pious persuasion and had since turned traitor,
offered an eager assurance.
The news obviously tempted Lawrence. He moved his body slowly round.
"Well," he said slowly, then he turned to Olva. "You'll come?" he said.
"No, thanks," said Olva shortly. "Bunning's been ragged about enough.
There's nothing the matter with the man."
Cardillac's voice was amused. "Well, Dune, I daresay we can get on
without you," he said.
Lawrence said slowly, "Well, I don't know. P'raps it's mean on the man.
I want a drink. I don't think I'm havin' any to-night, Cards."
Cardillac was sharper. "Oh, nonsense, Lawrence, come along. It doesn't
do the man any harm."
"It frightens the fellow out of his wits," said Dune sharply. "You
wouldn't like it yourself if you had a dozen fellows tumbling down upon
your rooms and chucking your things out of the window."
Rupert Craven said: "Well, I'm off anyhow. Work for me." He vanished
into the shadow.
Lawrence nodded. "Good-bye, Cards, old man. Go and play your old bridge
or something--leave the wretched Bunnin' to his prayers."
Lawrence and Olva moved away.
3
The first thing that Lawrence said when they were lounging comfortably
in his worn but friendly chairs hit Olva, expecting peace here at any
rate, like a blow.
"Fellers have forgotten Carfax damn quick."
In that good-natured face there was no suspicion, but Olva seemed to see
there a curiosity, even an excitement.
"Yes," he said, "they have."
"Fellers," said Lawrence again, "aren't clever in this College. They get
their firsts in Science--little measly pups from Board Schools who don't
clean their teeth--and there are one or two men who can row a bit and
play footer a bit and play cricket a bit--I grant you all that--but
they _aren't_ clever--not what I call clever."
Olva waited for the development of Lawrence's brain.
"Now at St. Martin's they'll talk. They'll sit round a fire the whole
blessed evenin' talkin'--about whether there's a God or isn't a God,
about whether they're there or aren't there, about whether women are
rotten or not, about jolly old Greece and jolly old Rome--_I_ know.
That's the sort o' stuff you could go in for--damn interestin'. I'd like
to listen to a bit of it, although they'd laugh if they heard me say so,
but what I'm gettin' at is that there ain't any clever fellers in this
old bundle o' bricks, and Carfax's death proves it."
"How does it prove it?" asked Dune.
"Why, don't you see, they'd have made more of Carfax. Nobody said a
blessed thing that any one mightn't have said."
Lawrence thought heavily for a moment or two, and then he brought out--
"Carfax was a stinker--a rotten fellow. That's granted, but there was
more in it than just Carfax. Why, any one could give him a knock on the
chin any day and there's no loss, but to have a feller killed in Sannet
Wood where all those old Druids---"
As the words came from him Lawrence stopped.
"Druids?" said Olva.
"Why, yes. I wish I were a clever feller an' I could say what I mean,
but if I'd been a man with a bit of grey matter that's what I'd have
gone in for--those old stones, those old fellers who used to slash your
throat to please their God. My soul, there's stuff there. _They_ knew
what fighting _was--they'd_ have played footer with you. Ever since I
was a tiny kid they've excited me, and if I'd been a brainy feller I'd
have known a lot more, but the minute I start reactin' about them I
get heavy, can't keep my eyes to it. But I've walked miles--often and
often--to see a stone or a hill, don't yer know, and Sannet Wood's one
o' the best. So, says I, when I hear about young Carfax bein' done
for right there at the very place, I says to myself, 'You may look and
look--hold your old inquests--collar your likely feller--but it wasn't a
man that did it, and you'll have to go further than human beings if you
fix on the culprit.'"
This was, in all probability, the longest speech that Lawrence had ever
made in his life. He himself seemed to think so, for he added in short
jerks: "It was those old Druids--got sick--o' the sight--o' Carfax's
dirty body--bangin' about in their preserves--an' they gave him a chuck
under the chin," and after that there was silence.
To Olva the effect of this was uncanny. He played, it seemed, a
spiritual Blind Man's Buff. On every side of him things filled the air;
once and again he would touch them, sometimes he would fancy that he was
alone, clear, isolated, when suddenly something again would blunder up
against him. And always with him, driving him into the bustle of his
fellow men, flinging him, hurling him from one noise to another noise,
was the terror of silence. Let him once be alone, once waiting in
suspense, and he would hear. . . . What would he hear?
He felt a sudden impulse to speak.
"Do you know, Lawrence, in a kind of way I feel with you. I mean
this--that if--I had, at any time, committed a murder or were indeed
burdened by any tremendous breaking of a law, I believe it would be the
consciousness of the Maker of the law that would pursue me. It sounds
priggish, but I don't mean man. The laws that man has made
nothing--subject to any temporary civilization, mere fences put up for a
moment to keep the cattle in their proper fields. But the laws that God
made--if you break one . . ."
Lawrence tuned heavily in his chair.
"Then you believe in God?"
"Yes, I believe in God."
After that there was silence. Both men felt uncomfortable. Led by some
sudden, ungovernable impulse, they had both gone further than their
slight acquaintance justified. Olva was convinced that he had made a
fool of himself, that he had talked like a prig. Lawrence was groping
hopelessly amongst a forest of dark thought for some little sensible
thing that he might say. He found nothing and so relapsed, with false,
uncomfortable easiness, into--
"I say, old man, have a drink."
The rest of that conversation concerned football.