PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY
1
He had a bath, changed his clothes, and sitting before his fire waited.
As he looked around his room he knew that he was leaving it for ever.
What ever might be the issue of his conversation with Rupert, he knew
that that at any rate was true; he would never return here again--or he
would not return until he had worked out his duty. He looked about
him regretfully; he had grown very fond of that room and the things
in it--the shape of it, the books, the blue bowls, the bright fire,
"Aegidius" (but he would take "Aegidius" with him). He looked last at
the photograph of his father, the rocky eyes, the flowing beard, the
massive shoulders.
It was back to him that he was going, and he would walk all the way.
Walking alone he would listen, he would watch, he would wait, and then,
in that great silence, he would be told what he must do.
In the pleasant crackle of the fire, in the shaded light of the lamp, in
the starlit silence of the College Courts, there seemed such safety; in
his heart there was such happiness; in that moment of waiting for Rupert
Craven to come he learnt once and for all that, in very _truth_, there
is no gift, no reward, no joy that can equal "the Peace of God," nor is
there any temporal danger, disease or agony that can threaten its power.
As the last notes of the clock in Outer Court striking five died away
Rupert Craven came in. If he had seemed tired and worn-out before, now
the overwhelming impression that he gave was of an unhappiness from
which he seemed to have no outlet. He was young enough to be tormented
by the determination to do the right thing; he was young enough to give
his whole devotion to his sister; he was young enough to admire, against
all determination, Olva's presence and prowess and silence; he was young
enough to be haunted, night and day, by the terrors of his imagination;
he was young enough to be amazed at finding the world a place of
Life and Death; he was young enough finally to be staggered that he
personally should be drawn into the struggle.
But now, just now, as he stood in the doorway, he was simply tired,
tired out. He pulled himself together with the obvious intention of
being cold and fierce and judicial. He had cornered Dune at last, he
had driven him to confession, he was a fine fellow, a kind of Fate, the
Supreme Judge . . . this is what he doubtless desired to feel; but he
wished that Dune had not played so wonderful a game that afternoon, that
Dune did not now--at this moment of complete disaster and ruin--look
so strangely happy, that he were himself not so utterly wretched and
conscious of his own failure to do anything as it ought to be done. He
did his best; he refused to sit down, he remained as still as possible,
he looked over Dune's head in order to avoid those shining eyes.
The eyes caught him.
"Craven, why have you been badgering the wretched Bunning?"
"I thought you asked me to come here to tell me something--I didn't
come to answer questions."
"We'll come to my part of it in a moment. But I think it's only fair to
answer me first."
"What have you got to do with Bunning?"
"That's not, immediately, the point. The thing I want to know is, why
you should have chosen, during the last week, to go and torment the
hapless Bunning until you've all but driven him out of his wits."
"I don't see what it's got to do with you."
"It's got this much to do with me--that he came to me this morning with
a story so absurd that it proves that he can't be altogether right in
his head. He told me that he had confided this absurd story to you."
There was no answer.
"I don't suppose," Olva went on at last gently, "that we've either of
us got very much time, and there's a great deal to be done, so let's
go straight to it. Bunning told me this morning that he declared to you
yesterday that he--of all people in the world--had murdered Carfax."
"Yes," at last Craven sullenly muttered, "he told me that."
"And of course you didn't believe it?"
"I didn't believe that _he'd_ done it--no. But he knows who _did_ do it.
He's got all the details. Some one has told him."
Craven was trembling. Olva pushed a chair towards him.
"Look here, you'd better sit down."
Craven sat down.
"I know that some one told him," Olva said quietly, "because I told
him."
"Then you know who----" Craven's voice was a whisper.
"I know," said Olva, "because it was I who killed Carfax."
Craven took it---the moment for which he'd been waiting so long--in the
most amazing way.
"Oh!" he cried, like a child who has cut its finger. "Oh! I wish
you hadn't!" There was the whole of Craven's young struggle with an
astounding world in that cry.
Then, after that, there was a long silence, and had some one come into
the room he would have looked at the two men before the fire and have
supposed that they were gently and comfortably falling off to sleep.
Olva at last said; "Of course I know that you have suspected me for a
long time. Everything played into your hands. I have done my very utmost
to prevent your having positive proof of the thing, but that part of the
business is now done with. You know, and you can do what you please with
the knowledge."
But, now that the moment had come, Rupert Craven could do nothing with
it.
"I don't want to do anything," he muttered at last. "I'm not up to doing
anything. I don't understand it. I'm not the sort of fellow who ought to
be in this kind of thing at all."
That was how he now saw it, as an unfair advantage that had been taken
of him. This point of view changed his position to the extent of his now
almost appealing to Olva to help him out of it.
"Your telling me like that has made it all so difficult. I feel now
suddenly as though I hated Carfax and hadn't the least objection to
somebody doing for him. And _that's_ all wrong--murder's an awful
thing--one ought to feel bad about it." Then finally, with the cry of
a child in the dark, "But this _isn't_ life, it never _has_ been
life since that day I heard of Carfax being killed. It's the sort of
thing--it's been for weeks the sort of thing--that you read of in books
or see at the Adelphi; and I'm not that kind of fellow. I tell you I've
been mad all this last month, getting it on the brain, seeing things
night and day. My one idea was to make you own up to it, but I never
thought of what was going to happen when you did."
Olva let him work it out.
"Of course I never thought of you for an instant as the man until that
afternoon when you talked in your sleep. Then I began to think and I
remembered what Carfax had said about your hating him. Then I went with
your dog for a walk and we found your matchbox. After that I noticed all
sorts of things and, at the same time, I saw that you were in love with
Margaret. That made me mad. My sister is everything in the world to me,
and it seemed to me that--she should marry a fellow who . . . without
knowing! I began to be ill with it and yet I hadn't any real reasons to
bring forward. You wanted me to show my cards, but I wouldn't. Sometimes
I thought I really _was_ going mad. Then two things made me desperate.
I saw that you had some secret understanding with my mother and I
saw--that my sister loved you. We'd always been tremendous pals--we
three, and it seemed as though every one were siding against me. I saw
Margaret marrying you and mother letting her--although she knew . . .
it was awful--Hell!"
He pressed his hands together, his voice shook: "I'd never been in
anything before--no kind of trouble--and now it seemed to put me right
on one side. I couldn't see straight. One moment I hated you, then I
admired you, and the oddest thing of all was that I didn't think about
the actual thing--your having killed Carfax--at all; everything else was
so much more important. I just wanted to be sure that you'd done it and
then--for you to go away and never see any of us again."
Olva smiled.
"Yes," he said.
"But it wasn't until the 5th of November--the 'rag' night--that I was
quite sure. I knew then, when I saw you hitting that fellow, that
you'd killed Carfax. But, of course, that wasn't proof. Then I noticed
Bunning. I saw that he was always with you, and of course it was an
odd sort of friendship for you to have; I could see, too, that he'd got
something on his mind. I went for him--it was all easy enough--and at
last he broke down. Then I'd got you----"
"You've got me," said Olva.
Rupert looked him, slowly, in the face. "You're wonderful!" Then he
added, almost wistfully, "If Margaret hadn't loved you it wouldn't
really any of it have mattered. I suppose that's very immoral, but
that's what it comes to. Margaret's everything in the world to me and
you must tell her."
"Of course I will tell her," Olva said. "That's what I ought to have
done from the beginning. That's what I was _meant_ to do. But I had
to be driven to it. What will you do, Craven, if it doesn't matter to
her--if she doesn't care whether I killed Carfax or no?"
"At least you'll have told her," the boy replied firmly. "At least
she'll know. Then it's for her to decide. She'll do the right thing," he
ended proudly.
"And what do you think that is?" Olva asked him.
"I don't know," he answered. "This seems to have altered everything. I
ought now to be hating you--I don't. I ought to shudder at the sight of
you--I don't. The Carfax business seems to have slipped right back, to
be ages ago, not to matter. All I suppose I wanted was to be reassured
about you--if Margaret loved you. And now I _am_ reassured. I believe
you know what to do."
"Yes, I know what to do," said Olva. "I'm going away to-morrow for a
long time. I shall always love Margaret--there can never be any one
else--but I shall not marry her unless I can come back cleared."
"And who--what--can clear you?"
"Ah! who knows! There'll be something for me to do, I expect. . . . I
will see Margaret to-morrow--and say good-bye."
Craven's face was white, the eyelids had almost closed, his head hung
forward as though it were too heavy to support.
"I'm just about done," he murmured, "just about done. It's been all
a beastly dream . . . and now you're all right--you and Margaret--I
haven't got to bother about her any more."
2
After hall Olva went to Cardillac's room for the last time. No one there
knew that it was for the last time. It seemed to them all that he was
just beginning to come out, to be one of them. The football match
of that afternoon had been wonderful enough for anything, and the
excitement of it lingered still about Cardillac's rooms, thick now with
tobacco-smoke, crowded with men, noisy with laughter. The air was so
strong with smoke, the lights so dim, the voices so many, that Olva
finding a corner near an open window slipped, it might almost seem, from
the world. Outside the snow, threatening all day, now fell heavily; the
old Court took it with a gentleness that showed that the snow was meant
for it, and the snow covered the grey roofs and the smooth grass with
a satisfaction that could almost be heard, so deep was it. Just this
little window-pane between the world that Olva was leaving and the world
to which he was going!
He caught fragments: "Just that last run--gorgeous--but old Snodky says
that that horse of his---"
"My dear fellow, you take it from me--they can't get on without
it. . . . Now a girl I know----"
"They fairly fell upon one another's necks and hugged. Talk of the
fatted calf! Now if I'd asked the governor----"
Around him there came, with a poignancy, a beauty, that, now that he was
to lose it all, was like a wound, the wonder of this Cambridge. Then he
had it, the marvellous moment! On the other side of the window the
still court, a few twinkling lights, the powdering snow--and here the
vitality, the energy, the glowing sense of two thousand souls marching
together upon Life and seizing it, with a shout, lifting it, stepping
out with it as though it were one long glory! Afterwards what matter?
There had been the moment, never to be forgotten! Cambridge, the
beautiful threshold!
For an instant the sense of his own forthcoming journey--away from life,
as it seemed to him--caught him as he sat there. "What will God do with
me?"
From the outer world through the whispering snow, he caught the echo of
the Voice--"My Son . . . My Son."
Soon he heard Lawrence's tremendous laugh--"Where's Dune? Is he here?"
Lawrence found him and sat down beside him.
"By Jupiter, old man, I was frightened for you this afternoon. Until
half-time you were drugged or somethin', and there was I prayin' to my
Druids all I was worth to put back into you. And, my word, they did it
I Talk about that second half--never saw anythin' like it! Have a drink,
old man!"
"No, thanks. Yes, I didn't seem to get on to it at all at first."
"Well, you're fixed for Queen's Club--just heard--got your Blue all
right. You and Whymper ought to do fine things between you, although
stickin' two individualists together on the same wing like that ain't
exactly my idea, and they don't as a rule settle the team as early
as this"--Lawrence put a large hand on Olva's knee. "Goin' home for
Christmas?" he said.
"I expect so."
"Well, yer see--I've got a sort of idea. I wish this vac, you'd come
an' stay with us for a bit. Good old sorts, my people. Governor quite
a brainy man--and you could talk, you two. There'll be lots of people
tumblin' about the place--lots goin' on, and the governor'll like to
have a sensible feller once in a way . . . and I'd like it too," he
ended at the bottom of his gruff voice.
"Well, you see;" Olva explained, "it depends a bit on my own father.
He's all alone up there at our place, and I like to be with him as much
as possible." Olva looked through the window at the snow, grey against
the sky, white against the college walls. "I don't quite know where I
shall be--I think you must let me write to you."
"Oh! _that's_ all right," said Lawrence. "I want you to come along some
time. You'd like the governor--and if you don't mind listening to an ass
like me--well, I'd take it as an honour if you'd talk to me a bit."
As Olva looked Lawrence in the eyes he knew that it would be well with
him if, in his journey through the world, he met again so good a soul.
Cardillac joined them and they all talked for a little. Then Olva said
good-night.
He turned for a moment at the door and looked back. Some one at the
other end of the room was singing "Egypt" to a cracked piano. A babel
of laughter, of chatter, every now and again men tumbled against one
another, like cubs in a cave, and rolled upon the floor. Lawrence,
his feet planted wide apart, was standing in the middle of an admiring
circle, explaining something very slowly.
"If the old scrum-half," he was saying, "only stood back enough---"
What a splendid lot they were! What a life it was! So much joy in the
heart of so much beauty! . . . Cambridge!
As he crossed the white court the strains of "Egypt" came, like a
farewell, through the tumbling snow.
There was still a thing that he must do. He went to say good-bye to
Bunning. He thought with surprise as he climbed the stairs that this was
the first time that he'd ever been to Bunning's room. It had always been
Bunning who had come to him. He would always see that picture---Bunning
standing, clumsily, awkwardly in the doorway. Poor Bunning!
When Olva came in he was sitting in a very old armchair, staring into
the fire, his hair on end and his tie above his collar. Olva watched him
for a moment, the face, the body, everything about him utterly dejected;
the sound of Olva's entrance did not at once rouse him. When at last he
saw who it was he started up, his face flushing crimson.
"You!" he cried.
"Yes," said Olva, "I've come to tell you that everything's all right."
For a moment light touched Bunning's eyes, then slowly he shook his
head.
"Things can't be all right. It's gone much too far."
"My dear Bunning, I've seen Craven. I've told him. I assure you that all
is well."
"You told him?"
"Everything. That I killed Carfax--he knew it, of course, long ago. He
went fast asleep at the end of it."
Bunning shook his head again, wearily. "It's all no good. You're
saying these things to comfort me. Even if Craven didn't do anything he
wouldn't let you marry his sister now. That's more important than being
hung."
"If it hadn't been for you," Olva said slowly, "I should have gone on
wriggling. You've made me come out into the open. 'I'm going to tell
Miss Craven everything to-morrow."
"What will she do?"
"I don't know. She'll do the right thing. After that I'm going away."
"Going away?"
"Yes. I want to think about things. I've never thought about anything
except myself. I'm going to tramp it home, and after that I shall find
out what I'm going to do."
"And Miss Craven?"
"I shall come back to her one day--when I'm fit for it--or rather, _if_
I'm fit for it. But that's enough about myself. I only wanted to tell
you, Bunning, before I go that I shall never forget your telling Craven.
You're lucky to have been able to do so fine a thing. We shall meet
again later on--I'll see to that."
Bunning, his whole body strung to a desperate appeal, caught Olva's
hand. "Take me with you, Dune. Take me with you. I'll be your
servant--anything you like. I'll do anything if you'll let me come. I
won't be a nuisance--I'll never talk if you don't want me to--I'll do
everything you tell me--only let me come. You're the only person
who's ever shown me what I might do. I might be of use if I were with
you--otherwise----"
"Rot, Bunning. You've got plenty to do here. I'm no good yet for
anybody. One day perhaps we'll meet again. I'll write to you. I promise
not to forget you. How could I? and one day I'll come back---"
Bunning moved away, his head banging. "You must think me an awful
fool--of course you do. I am, I suppose. I'd be awful to be with for
long at a time--of course I see that. But I don't know what to do. If
I go home and tell them I'm not going to be a parson it'll be terrible.
They'll all be at me. Not directly. They won't say anything, but they'll
have people to talk to me. They'll fill the house--they won't spare any
pains. And then, at last, being all alone, I shall give in. I know I
shall, I'm not clever or strong. And I shall be ordained--and then
it'll be hell. I can see it all. You came into my life and made it all
different, and now you're going out of it again and it will be worse
than ever---"
"I won't go out of it," said Olva. "I'll write if you'd like--and
perhaps we'll meet. I'll be always your friend. And--look here--I'll
tell Margaret--Miss Craven--about you, and she'll ask you to go and see
her, and if you two are friends it'll be a kind of alliance between all
of us, won't it?"
Bunning was happier--"Oh, but she'll think me such an ass!"
"Oh no, she won't, she's much too clever, And, Bunning, don't let
yourself be driven by people. Stick to the thing you want to do--you'll
find something all right. Just go on here and wait until you're shown.
Sit with your ears open----"
Bunning filled his mouth with toast. "If you'll write to me and keep up
with me I'll do anything."
"And one thing--Don't tell any one I'm going. I shall just slip out of
college early the day after to-morrow. I don't want any one to know.
It's nobody's affair but mine."
Then he held out his hand--"Good-bye, Bunning, old man."
"Good-bye," said Bunning.
When Olva had gone he sat down by the fire again, staring.
Some hours afterwards he spoke, suddenly, aloud: "I can stand the lot of
them now."
Then he went to bed.