TO Perrin, in his sleep that night there came, accompanied with roaring
wind and crashing sea, a dream of the little man in red and black china
that lived on the mantelpiece. He came tip-tap across the floor to him
and bent over the bed and whispered in his ear. He had grown in his
transit and was large in the leg and trailed behind him a long black
gown, and he troubled Mr. Perrin by buzzing like a wasp.
He was urging Perrin to do something, but it was hard to distinguish the
words because of the booming of the sea. The cold light of early morning
and, an hour later, the harsh clang of the bell down the stone passages,
restored the china gentleman once more to the mantelpiece; but the
discovery that there had been a storm in the night only seemed to
confirm the gentleman's appearance. Besides, he was no new thing—he had
climbed down from his perch on other occasions.
Perrin and Traill exchanged no word during breakfast. II.
Garden Minimus played his small part in the whole affair by being sulky
and obstinate during the whole of first hour. It was a game that he was
perfectly accustomed to playing, and he knew every move from the opening
gambit of “saying things under your breath that looked bad, but couldn't
possibly be heard,” to the triumphant checkmate of a studied, sarcastic
politeness that was most unusual and hinted at danger.
Perrin had slept, as we have seen, exceedingly badly, and the old
hallucination that twenty boys were in reality five hundred crept over
him. They sat in stupid, irritated rows at hard wooden desks soiled with
ink. Beyond the drab windows the wind howled, and the dry leaves blew
against the panes.
His temper rose as the hour advanced. The fifth proposition of the
first book of Euclid was scarcely calculated to show dull boys at their
brightest and best, and Perrin found that, by changing the letters of
the figure on the board, the form knew nothing about it at all.
He proceeded, as was his way, to secure the dullest, fattest, and
heaviest boy (a youngster with spectacles and a protruding chin, called
Somerset-Walpole) and to make merry at his expense. Somerset-Walpole—his
fingers exuded ink, his coat whitewash, and his hair dust—stood with his
mouth open and his brow wrinkled, and a vague wonder as to why, when he
ought to be thinking about Euclid, his mind would invariably wander to
the bristly hairs at the back of Mr. Perrin's neck and the silly leaves
dancing about outside.
Mr. Perrin played heavily with him for about quarter of an hour (the
form laughing nervously at his ironical sallies), and then sent the
youngster back, crying, to his seat; the boy spent the rest of the hour
in drawing hideous people with noses like pens and tiny legs, and then
smudging them out with his fingers.
Then Perrin had Garden Minimus in his hands. The boy's sulking, frowning
face drove him to fury. He suddenly felt (as though it had leapt wildly
from some dark corner on to his shoulder) the Cat of Cruelty purring at
his ear. It was an animal whose whispers he heard, as a rule, only when
the term was well advanced; now it was upon him. He knew, suddenly, that
he would like to take Garden Minimus's ears in his hands and twist them
back further and further until they cracked. He would like to take his
little fat arms and close his fingers about them and pinch them until
they were blue. He would like to take the sharp, white knuckles and beat
them with a ruler. Garden had chubby cheeks and bright blue eyes. Perrin
began to pull, very gently, his hair. Garden wriggled a little.
“Take the triangle A B C,” he began, and stopped. Perrin began to pinch
the back of his neck.
“You have said that six times now, Garden. Say it again, because I am
sure the rest of the form are immensely interested. Really, I grieve
to think of the amount of time that you must have spent over your
preparation last night. You 'll be overdoing it if you go on like this,
you know—you will, really. You mustn't work so hard. Meanwhile write it
out thirty times, and say it to me to-night after tea.”
But he did not let him go. He passed his hand down the boy's arm.... He
saw the form watching him with white faces; his own was white; he was
shaking with rage.
“Go back to your seat,” he said in a whisper, and he gave him a push. He
sent the form back to learn the work again, and he sat for the rest of
the hour with his head between his hands. Then, when the bell had rung
and most of the form had filed out, he called Garden to him. “I think
fifteen times will be enough,” and he touched the boy's sleeve with his
hand. But Garden went out of the room in silence, infinite contempt in
his eyes.
Then, the hoys gone, Mr. Perrin's mind went back to the incident of
the preceding night. It was his custom to go and talk for a little to
Moy-Thompson once a week. They disliked each other, of course; but they
could be of mutual advantage, and they both found that hints dropped and
accepted during these little talks were of great value during the days
that followed. Perrin had never any deliberate intention of harming
anyone in these little conversations. But, every man's hand being
against him, it seemed to him only fair that he should use such
opportunities of retaliation as were given him. At the same time these
little confidential talks flattered his sense of power. Dormer was the
senior master at the Lower School, but Perrin knew that Dormer did not
have these little talks; it did not occur to him that the reason might
be that Dormer was too honorable to care about them. Moreover, as far
as Traill was concerned, Perrin really felt that it did not do to have
masters leaping through windows at any hour of the night. The accidental
fact that he disliked Traill intensely had, he persuaded himself,
nothing whatever to do with it; he would have felt it just as strongly
his duty to speak about it had the offender been his dearest friend.
The accumulative irritations of the morning, succeeding a disturbed and
broken night, only stirred him to further zeal for the school's good.
The only consoling fact in a dark world was that Miss Desart had, in
chapel, last evening, looked at him with eyes that seemed to him on fire
with devotion. He intended, in a day or two, to ask her to come for
a walk with him... and then another walk... and then another... and
then....
And so he went to see Moy-Thompson. You can, if the simile is not too
terribly old, imagine Moy-Thompson as a spider and his study as his web;
it was certainly dusty enough, with faded busts of Romans and Greeks
on the top shelves of the book-cases, and gloomy photographs of gloomy
places on the walls. The two men seemed to suit the place well enough,
and its depression really brightened Mr. Perrin up. But it must be
remarked once more that it was not from any anticipation of doing Traill
damage that he embraced and cuddled his little piece of news so eagerly,
but only because it helped his sense of importance. He was already
wishing that he had told Garden Minimus to write his Euclid thirty times
instead of fifteen, so cheered and inspired did he feel.
The two men understood one another perfectly, and had a mutual respect
for each other 's strong qualities. No time was wasted in preliminaries,
and it was a curious coincidence that Moy-Thompson's first question
should be: “What do you think of Traill? How's he doing?”
Moy-Thompson is not a pleasant person to contemplate, alone, amongst the
people of that place, there is nothing whatever to be said for him, and
it is my intention to pass over him as quickly as may be. Perrin knew
from the sound of his voice that he had some reason for disliking
Traill.
“Oh, I think, well enough,” he answered, looking out of the window. “The
boys like him.”
“Oh, they like him; do they?”
“Yes. I think he indulges them rather. I'm not quite sure that he sticks
to his work as he should do.”
“Why! What does he do?”
“I found him jumping through the Lower School dining-room window at one
o'clock this morning.”
“Oh, did you!” Moy-Thompson smiled. “Where had he been?”
“I didn't ask.”
Perrin pulled his gown about him. A sudden distaste for the whole
business had seized him; after another word or two he went away, back to
his own rooms. III.
Meanwhile Traill was tired and cross and out of temper with the world.
He found that there was more to be said for the stay-at-home tastes of
the rest of the staff than he had suspected. You couldn't, if you went
gaily dancing the evening before, embrace early morning preparations
with the eagerness and even the attention that it properly demanded. His
mind was heavy, drowsy; he had forgotten his anger with Perrin and was
only rather amused by the whole affair of the night before; but, instead
of correcting Latin exercises, he sat, with his eyes gazing dreamily out
of the window, his thoughts on Isabel.
He found first hour tiresome and irritating. He lost his temper for the
first time that term, and went, at the end of the second hour, into the
Upper School common room with a cloudy brow and dragging feet.
Anything drearier than this place it would be impossible to conceive.
There was a long, red-clothed table, a black, yawning grate, a dozen
stiff wooden chairs and, scattered about the room, the whole of the
staff waiting for the bell to ring for third hour. This was the most
irritating quarter of an hour of the day.
Several men, Comber, Clinton, Dormer, and another, were bending over the
table, supervising the selection of the team for the afternoon's match.
As Traill came in he heard Comber's voice: “Toggett at three-quarter is
perfectly absurd. That's obviously Traill's choice. Traill may be able
to play, but his knowledge of the theory of the game is absolutely nil.”
Comber has resented Traill's entrance into the school football from the
very first. He, although many years past his game, had hitherto led the
Rugby enthusiasts of the school—he had been supreme on the Committee and
had had the last word about the teams. Traill's football, however, was
so obviously superior to anything that the school had had for a great
many years that he was received with open arms. He had not perhaps been
as judiciously submissive to Comber as he might have been, but he
had always deferred his opinion and had never been goaded by Comber's
caustic contradictions into ill-temper.
He did not now show any ill-temper, but only, with a laugh as he came up
to the table, said, “Thanks, Comber.”
Dormer hurried to make peace, but Comber continued to mutter: “What
the devil you want to put the man there for, I can't think....” By
the window Birkland and Monsieur Pons were arguing about the latter's
discipline.
“I should get them to stamp and rush about a bit more, Pons, if I were
you,” Birkland was saying. “It's so delightful for me, being just under
you. It is so easy for me to do my work, so nice to think that they
really are enjoying themselves.”
Monsieur Pons was waving his arms, excitedly. “I keep them perfectly
still this morning, as still as one mouse. No one stirs. You can hear a
pin drop.”
“You must have dropped a cartload of them,” said Birkland, frowning.
“Try and drop less next time.”
Suddenly in the middle of the room there appeared the school sergeant.
That could only mean one thing, and conversation instantly ceased.
“Mr. Moy-Thompson wishes to see Mr. Traill at twelve,” he said.
Comber gave a grunt of satisfaction. Traill laughed. “I thought things
were a little too pleasant to last,” he said. His mind flew back to
the incidents of last night. Surely Perrin couldn't have said anything.
Probably Moy-Thompson had heard of it in some other way. He shrugged
his shoulders and thought, as he looked round the dreary room, that
schoolmastering wasn't always pleasant. He wondered, too, a little
unhappily, why, when one wanted things to go well everything should go
wrong, through no fault of one's own.
Here were Perrin and Comber, for instance; they both obviously disliked
him, and yet he had done nothing to either of them. As he went out, he
caught White looking at him timidly, but sympathetically, and he smiled
at him. And indeed at twelve, when he knocked on the door at the end of
the dark passage, it was chiefly his memory of the last occasion that he
had been there, of White's pale face, that remained with him.
Pathos has, too, often its intense, pathetic moment coming, for no
definite reason, out of a mysterious distance and choosing to fill,
as water fills a pool, rooms and places and companies of people. Now,
suddenly, this study; with Moy-Thompson in it was a place, to Traill,
of the intensest pathos, so that it seemed strange that, with such
brilliant things as the world contained, it should be allowed to
continue. His own position was lost in the perpetual vision of White
standing, as he had seen him, with bent head.
“Ah, Traill,” said Moy-Thompson. “Sit down. I have been wanting to have
a talk with you. I hope that this time is quite convenient?”
“Perfectly,” said Traill.
“I've been intending to come down and look at your form, but I have had
no opportunity. I must try and manage next week.”
Traill said nothing. Moy-Thompson smiled at him. “I hope that you have
had no trouble with discipline.”
“None. The boys are excellent.”
“Ah! that is splendid.” There was a pause; then the beard was suddenly
lifted, and a glance was flashed across the table. “I hope that you take
your work seriously, Mr. Traill.” Traill flushed a little. “I think that
I do,” he said.
“That is well.... Because we are—ah! um—a great institution, a very
great institution. We owe our traditions—um, eh—a very serious and
determined attention to detail. To work together, as one man, for the
good of our race, that must be our object. Yes. No divisions, all in
friendly brotherhood—um, yes.” Traill said nothing.
“I hope that you realize this. We want every energy, every nerve, at
work. We must not waste a moment, nor grudge every instant to the cause
we have at heart. Um, yes, I hope that you agree, Mr. Traill.”
“I hope,” Traill said, “that you have not found me wanting, that you
have nothing to complain of. I think that I have worked—”
“Worked? Ah, yes.” Moy-Thompson caught him up, cracking his fingers
together. “But what about play, eh? What about play?” Traill flushed.
“As to football—”
“No, it is not football. It is merely a detail—quite a detail. But Mr.
Perrin informs me that you came in at one o'clock this morning through
the window. I confess that I was surprised.”
“That is quite true,” said Traill, in a low voice. “I went—”
“Ah! no! please!” Mr. Thompson lifted a large white hand. “No details
are necessary. The facts are sufficient. I need not, I think, say any
more. You must see for yourself.... Only, I think you will agree with me
that it should not occur again.”
“I am sorry—” Traill said.
“Ah, please! No more; it shall not be mentioned again. Only work and
play together are impossible. We have long vacations that give us all we
ask. To pass for a moment to another matter.” Moy-Thompson put his
hand on some papers. “Here are the scholarship questions that you have
set—geography and history. I think they are scarcely what we require.
If you would not mind resetting them and bringing them to me to-morrow.
Yes. Thank you.... Good morning.” Traill rose, took the papers in his
hand, and left the room. He knew, surely, certainly, as though Birkland
himself had told him, that this was to be the beginning of persecution.
The Reverend Moy-Thompson had got his knife into him, and he had Perrin
to thank for it. IV.
The interview that had lasted barely five minutes hung heavily over him
throughout the midday dinner. He always hated the meal: the great
joints of mutton, waiting to be carved, in shapeless, thick hunks, the
incessant noise throughout the meal, the clatter of plates and noise and
voices, the dreary monotony and repetition of it—Perrin's face seen at
the end of a long white table with the two rows of boys in between.
But to-day as he sat there he felt that he could kill Perrin if he had
the opportunity. What business was it of his? He had at any rate lost no
time in running to tell Moy-Thompson about it. The thought of the savage
joy that must have filled Perrin's breast whilst he told his news, made
Traill grind his teeth. Well! he would be even with him!
The moment the meal was over, and grace had been chanted in a loud,
discordant yell, Traill left the table and, without a word to anyone,
rushed down to the sea.
A tremendous wind was blowing. There was a certain part of the cliff
that jutted out into the water, and this was surrounded now, on three
sides, by a furious, heaving flood.
Wet mist hung over the sea, so that the enormous breakers leapt out of
the sea, came whistling with a thousand arms into the sky, and them
fell with a deafening roar upon the rocks. One after another, in swift
succession, first suspended in mid-air, hanging there like serpents
about to strike, then falling with a curve and glistering, shining
backs, then sweeping, tearing, at last lashing the iron rock. About him
the wind screamed and tugged at his clothes; behind him the trees bent
and creaked along the road; the rain lashed his face.
He was seized with a kind of fury; he stood, facing the sea, with his
hands clenched, his head up, his cap in his hand, and Isabel Desart, as
she came battling down the road and saw him there, knew, in that moment,
that she loved him and had loved him from the first moment that she saw
him. He saw her, but they could not speak to one another: the noise was
too great—the waves, the wind, the bending trees caught them into their
clamor; they stood, side by side, in silence. Suddenly he put out his
hand and caught hers. He held it; still, without a word, with the wind
almost flinging them to the ground, they drew together. The mist swept
about their heads, the spray beat in their faces. He drew her closer
to him, and she yielded. For a moment he held her with his face pressed
close against hers, and then their lips met. At last, and still without
a word, they moved slowly down the road.... V.
It was about half-past nine when Perrin, looking up at the sound of the
opening door, saw Traill standing there. Traill filled the doorway, and
Perrin knew at once that there was going to be a disturbance. He had had
disturbances before, a good many of them, and always it had brought to
him a sense of pathos that he, with an old mother (he always saw her as
a crumpled but vehement background), should have always to be fighting
people—he, so unoffending if they would let him alone. However, if
anyone (especially Traill) wished to fight him, he would do his best.
Traill was frowning. Traill was very angry.
Perrin said, “Ah, Traill! Come in for a chat? That's good of you.
Splendid! Sit down, won't you? Anything I can do for you?” But he wasn't
smiling.
“No,” said Traill, slowly. “There's nothing you can do for me. But I
want to speak to you.”
“Ah, well, sit down; won't you?”
“No, thanks. I 'll stand.” Traill cleared his throat. “Did you by any
chance say anything to the Head about my coming in last night?”
Perrin smiled. “My dear Traill, I really can't remember; and is it
really, after all, any business of yours?”
“Only this much, that he has been speaking to me about it. He says that
you told him—I want to know why you told him.”
“It is my business,” Perrin said, “as housemaster here to find out
anything that may be harming my house. I consider your late hours, your
disregard of your work, prejudicial to the school's progress,—um, yes.”
The impulse that had brought Traill to Perrin's room had not altogether
been one of anger. He was much too excited by the other event of the
afternoon to have any very angry feelings against anyone, and indeed
it had been rather a desire for peace, for clearing things up and being
well with the world, that had brought him there. He was a little ashamed
of the way that he had allowed, during these last weeks, his anger
against Perrin to grow, and he seemed to be losing some of his
good-humor and equability.
So now he put all the self-command that he possessed into play, and said
quietly, “I'm sorry, Perrin, if you feel that I have been neglecting my
duty. I don't think that, after all, one night's outing during the term
can do anyone very great harm. But I only spoke to you about it because
I have been feeling during these last weeks that we have not been very
good friends. It seems a pity when we are cooped up together here
so closely that we should not get on as well as possible; it makes
everything uncomfortable. And, in so far as I am to blame at all, I am
very sorry.”
The little red and yellow china man on the mantelpiece, Perrin said,
had been watching the conversation with great curiosity, and Perrin felt
that he was a little disappointed now when matters promised to finish
comfortably. Perrin himself was only too ready for peace. These quarrels
always brought on headaches, and, in his heart, he longed eagerly,
hungrily, for a friend. He already was beginning to feel again that he
liked young Traill very much.
He sat back in his chair and meant to be pleasant once more; but it was
his eternal misfortune, his curse from the deriding gods, that he had
ever at his hack the memory of all these jesting years that had already
passed him by: the memory of the men, the boys, the women, who had
laughed at him: the memory of the ways that he had suffered, of the
taunting jeers that had been flung at him, of the jests that so many of
his fellow-beings had, in his time, played upon him.
And so now he felt that at all costs he must regain his dignity, he must
show this young fellow his place and then be nice to him afterwards; and
really, somewhere in the hack of his mind, he saw his old mother with
her white lace cap sitting stiffly in her chair, and Traill on his
knees, kissing her hand.
“Well, Traill, I 'm sure I 'm glad you feel like that—um, yes. One must,
you know, maintain discipline. You are young; when you are older you
will see that there is something in what I say—um. We know, you see;
schoolmastering is a thing that takes some learning; yes, well, I'm sure
I'm very glad.”
But Traill was white again; his good determinations, his pleasant
tempers were flung, suddenly screaming, helter-skelter to the winds.
The patronage of it, the stupid, blundering fool with his “When you are
older,” and the rest.
“All right,” he said hotly; “keep that advice for others. I don't know
that I was so wrong, after all. What business of yours was it to
go sneaking to the Head like that? There are certain things that a
gentleman doesn't do.”
“Oh, really!”—the little man on the mantelpiece was smiling again.
Perrin was snarling, and his hands gripped the sides of his chair. “Your
apologies seem a little premature. One can forgive something to your
age, but that sort of impertinence—I don't think you remember to whom
you are speaking. You are the junior master here, you must be taught
that, and when those who are wiser than yourself choose to give you some
advice, you should take it gratefully.”
Traill took a step down the room, his hands clenched.
“My God! you conceited, insufferable—”
“Get out of my room!”
“All right, when I 've told you what I 've thought of you.”
“Get out of my room!” Perrin's eyes were starting out of his head.
Traill swung on his heel. “I won't forget this in a hurry,” he said.
“Take care you don't come in here again,” Perrin shouted after him. The
door was banged.
Perrin sat back in his chair; the room was going round and round, and he
had a confused idea that people were running races. He pressed his hands
to his head; the little china man leapt, screaming, off the mantelpiece
and ran at him, kicking up his fat little legs; and with the breeze from
under the door, a pile of French exercises fluttered, blew like sails in
the wind, and then slid, scattering, to the floor.