WITH the coming dawn he knew what it was that he would do. He waited,
sitting in his chair without moving and watching, with unseeing eyes,
the gray cold pane of his window and the last faint glow of the sinking
coals that lingered in the grate. He did not know what he could have
said to Moy-Thompson, what he ought to have said. He thought that he
might have faced it out better had the interview been in some other
place. There were so many things that hung about that room and made it
impossible for him to speak. He had not known that it would be so hard.
But he did not care, he really did not care. He saw vaguely that all
these many years the growing suspicion that he was really no good had
been coming upon him but he had never confessed it—now it stared him in
the face. If he had been any good he would have defied Moy-Thompson.
He knew that he had not the courage, at his time in life, to go out and
face the world again and get some other work to do. Also he had not the
courage to come back another term and go on with the work here. He had
not even had the pluck to hate Traill properly, as any other man would
do.
And yet he did not feel that it was all his fault. He was a pleasant
enough man if only someone had tried to like him—and then these
headaches—and then those days when his brain was so strangely
confused—no, it was not entirely his fault. And, last of all, if Isabel
Desart.—-Well, why think about it? They all mocked him—even Moy-Thompson
did not think him important enough to be angry with. He was very sick
and tired of life. II.
The dawn came late in those winter mornings but the house was very
silent as the heavy black behind the window lifted to a lighter gray.
Some clock downstairs chimed and Perrin raised his eyes from the black
cold grate and saw that soon it would be sunrise.
The things in his room were ghostly shapes, but he knew where everything
was and he moved about, himself the greatest ghost of all, making
everything tidy. He put the books back into their places, he tore up the
pile of papers on the table, he laid a note that he had written on the
middle of the cloth where it could easily be seen.
At last he stood for a moment and looked at it all in silence, then with
a little sigh he took his greatcoat from the back of the door where it
was hanging, put it on and went out. He passed very softly through the
solemnly-dark corridors, down the cold stone stairs, and along the
dark hall that presented such odd shapes and figures to him in the
half-light.
He swung back the bolts and bars of the hall-door and stepped out into
the mysterious garden. He drew a deep breath at the sweetness of it;
its beauty crowded upon him as though with eager fingers, taking hold of
him, almost as though it were pleading with him to stay and take pause
before he made any decision. It was an ordinary enough garden in the
daytime, but now was the most strangely moving moment in all the cycle
of the hours when the sun had sent word of his gorgeous coming and when
the brown earth and the seeds and roots held by it stirred to share in
the pageant. The breeze in Perrin's face was pure with all the freshness
of the first moments of the day and all about him he seemed to hear the
movement and stirring of countless things. Afterwards in the cold winter
day bare branches would rattle against the hard light of the frozen
sun—now everything was wrapt in curtains of silver mist.
He left the garden and went down the Brown Hill towards the sea. In
front of him a great sheet of sky was slowly catching light into the
threads and fibers of it. From its foundations where the dark band of
the land hid it great fountains of color were held behind the cloud
and the suggestion of their richness was passing already into the
thickly-curtained gray.
Mr. Perrin turned aside towards the bottom of the hill and struck off
across a frozen field into a bare and leafless wood. The light was
growing with every moment, the bare outlines of the country stood out
sharp and black against the surrounding gray and the great bank of cloud
was slowly filling with golden light. The wood was very still; through
the heart of it a little avenue of trees ran—now they were gaunt and
stiff in two lines with the road cold and gray between. At the end
of the little avenue there is suddenly a break, a sharp cliff running
sharply to the white road beneath, and then below the road again there
is the sea. It is a wonderful view from here, for the sea curves like a
silver bowl into infinite distance. Through the country-side it is known
as “The Golden View,” not golden now, however, but mysteriously moving
and heaving beneath its gray veil with the faintest threads of color
beginning to interlace the fabric of it.
Mr. Perrin stood, a curiously tiny figure, at the end of the avenue and
looked at the gray cliff at his feet. Behind him was the dark wood; in
front of him a vast and swiftly-changing world. Very soon, as the sun
rose above the sea, the world would be, once again, undisturbed. “To
fling oneself down on to that cold white road” was a very easy death to
die, but even now as he faced it he wondered whether he had the courage.
He shivered in the cold and drew his coat closer about him.
He thought that he would walk about a little. He turned round and saw
coming towards him, through the leafless trees, Isabel Desart. III.
He did not know what to do or say; at the first sight of her he thought
that his eyes had deceived him and, because at this supreme moment of
his life he was thinking of her, he had imagined that he saw her. She
was dressed also in gray, with a gray cloak and a little round gray hat.
And then in the hearty ring of her voice he knew that it was no ghost.
“Oh!” he said faintly, taking a step towards her, and his voice was full
of pain.
“Good morning, Mr. Perrin,” she said very easily; “I could not sleep and
I had thought that I would come down here to see the sun rise—and then
I saw you pass through the school gates and I was impertinent enough to
follow you. I want to talk to you.”
“To talk to me?”
He noticed suddenly that he was cold and that his teeth were chattering.
“Yes. Let us walk on to Rayner's Point. We ought to get there just as
the sun rises.”
He followed her as she turned down the path. His mind had been so full
of what he had intended to do that he felt that she must have known.
He glanced at her almost guiltily as he followed her. How beautiful she
was! He pulled his coat closer about his ears.
“I hope you didn't very much want to be alone,” she said smiling at him;
“but really, I couldn't miss my opportunity. I have been wanting—very
badly—ever since yesterday afternoon—to speak to you.”
“Since yesterday afternoon,” he repeated bitterly. “You must feel as
they all do, about that.”
“I don't know how the others feel,” she answered almost fiercely. “That
is no business of mine. But I understood, I sympathized, a great deal
more than you would believe—and I wanted to tell you so.”
“You couldn't understand—you couldn't sympathize. It doesn't touch you
anywhere. You 're going to-day and you won't come back. Well, don't
think of any of us again. Don't try and help us—it only makes it worse
for us.”
“No, please; that is unkind and untrue. If you would let me I would
understand—and even if I am going away it would be something for both of
us if we knew that we had parted friends, that—”
But suddenly he interrupted her, standing in her path, his face working
most strangely, muttering words that she could not catch. She wondered
what he was going to do, he looked so odd and wild against the breaking
dawn. Then he seemed to turn from her with a gesture that had some
strange greatness in it; he faced the sea, his hands clenched behind his
back and in the still hush of the morning she heard his sobs.
“Oh, please—don't,” and then she stayed in infinite distress waiting for
him to turn. His figure was so desolate, so thin and ragged, in the cold
morning air, and her heart was full of the deepest aching pity.
At last he turned round to her. “Let us go on,” he said roughly; “I
am all in pieces—don't mind me—you shouldn't have spoken to me like
that—it's more than I can stand.” Then after a pause he went on, “You
mustn't talk of our being friends. A man like myself cannot be a friend
of yours.”
“That is for me to say,” she answered gently. “I have been so wrong all
this term. I have only made things worse instead of better and I did so
want to help. It's been awful this term and yesterday afternoon was the
worst of all. Oh! If you only knew how I had agreed with the things you
said!”
“It is n't any use,” he answered. “It's too late.”
“It isn't too late. It's never too late. If you won't let me help you,
why then perhaps you 'll help me.”
“Help you?”
“Yes—if you knew how miserable it will always make me if we part like
this—I shall never cease my regret. Please, tell me a little of what
you've felt, of what you 're going to do. It isn't kind to me to leave
it like this.”
There was a long silence. She had never before realized how young she
was; her inexperience faced her most desperately, so that she felt
bitterly that she could not touch even the fringe of his troubles. Every
word that she uttered seemed an impertinence and yet she knew that if
she went away without speaking she would regret it all her life.
At last he turned round to her; he seemed to have gained absolute
control of himself and his voice was quite steady.
“No—I hadn't meant to be rude like that—only you took me by surprise.
I've made a wretched muddle of things and, since yesterday afternoon,
I 've seen that I'm a complete failure in every possible sense of the
word. You are so splendid in all ways—and you are going to have such a
splendid life—that we are at the opposite ends of the world, you and I.”
She noticed, whilst he was speaking, that his speech was clear of all
its little affectations and pomposities. He seemed another man from the
strange creature whom she had known before.
“No, we are not at the opposite ends of the world. I have felt so
miserable all this term. I have felt that in some way I ought to have
made things better between you and Archie—Mr. Traill—all that wretched
quarreling—and yet I felt so helpless.”
“No. That would have been inevitable without you. An older man feeling
that he was being jockeyed out of his place by a younger man and the
younger man resenting the older man's interference—and neither Traill
nor I were, I suppose, very tactful. And there we were pressed up
against one another with the whole place working on our nerves. No, you
had n't very much to do with it.”
But it showed how young she was that she did not see the half-tender,
half-ironical look that he flung upon her. In his heart he was wondering
whether he would tell her, but something, perhaps her very absence of
all self-consciousness, held him back—
He went on, softly, almost as though he were talking to himself. “And
then, these last weeks it all got on my nerves to such an extent that I
was nearly off my head. I wanted to kill Traill. I might have killed him
if I had been a stronger man. I felt that it was all so unfair that
he should have everything—youth, health, prospects,
popularity—everything—and I nothing. I had never been a likable man,
perhaps, but there seemed to be no reason. I had it in me, I thought, to
do things—”
He stopped for a moment and looked at the sea; its gray was being shot
with blue and gold and the banks of mist on the horizon were rolling
back like gates before the sun.
“—And then, yesterday afternoon, when Moy-Thompson was making his
speech, I seemed to see suddenly that it was the place—the system—that I
had been up against all this time, and not any one person—and suddenly
I burst out, scarcely knowing, you know—and I thought I'd done rather a
big thing. I thought the other men would be glad that I had led the way.
I thought Moy-Thompson would be furious and frightened, but the other
men were amused and Moy-Thompson laughed—and suddenly everything cleared
and I saw what this place had made of me. They say that it takes a man
all a lifetime to know himself—well, I 've got that knowledge early. I
know what I am.”
She suddenly put out her hand and he caught it fiercely in his. “You 're
going to have a fine life,” he said; “there are so many people that you
will do good to—but you have been everything to one useless creature.”
“I shall always be proud to be your friend.” Curiously, in the growing
light, with that strange, uncouth figure holding her hand, she felt more
strongly moved than she had ever been before—yes, even Archie Traill's
wooing had not touched her as this did.
“I'm too young to know all that it has meant to you,” at last she said
brokenly, “but I shall never, all my life through, forget you. I shall
want, please, always to hear—”
“To hear?” His lips twisted into a strange smile. “Ah, you must n 't
want that.”
“Why not? What are you going to do—now?”
“To do?” He was still strangely smiling. “What is there for me to do?
I am too old to struggle outside for a living. I have no means and I am
fit for nothing but schoolmastering—”
“Cannot you come back here—in spite of it all?”
“Come back?”
“Yes.”
“Moy-Thompson wants me to come back. He thinks that I am so unimportant
that—it does n't matter.”
“You will—promise that you will!”
“Ah, it is all so useless,” he said, shaking his head. “Before, when I
had built up a kind of opinion of myself it was hard enough, but now,
when that is all gone—”
“Oh! I wonder if I can make you understand”—her eyes were flaming—“you
must—you must. Don't you see that you 're being given such a chance!
Think of the pluck of it—after all that has happened—to come back,
knowing what they think of you, knowing what you think of yourself. Oh!
I envy you. I believe the only thing we 're in the world for is to have
courage—that answers everything—and some of us have such fat, easy lives
that we've no chance at all. But you to come back with your teeth set,
to build it all up again, to will it all back! Oh! it's splendid!
And Archie and I will have our happy, ordinary existences—just going
along—and you 'll be here doing the finest thing in the world. I'd
change places with you to-morrow,” she magnificently ended up.
“You see it like that?” he said slowly almost to himself.
“Of course I see it like that. Why, I believe that's what all this
term's been for—to bring to a head—to show you your great chance. That
's life—everything leading up to the one big thing—and now this is
yours.”
“My God!” he whispered, “If I could!”
“You must,” she answered, “I believe in you—come back—fight it—win.”
But he shook his head very slowly, very sadly.
“No; I'm not the kind of man to do a thing like that. I 've had my
spirit broken—this place has broken it.”
“No; it is not. I know it is not. Here's your chance—take it.”
“All these years,” he answered grimly, “twenty years—it's a long time
for a man. I can't begin all over again.”
“Twenty years are nothing. You 've never seen things straight as you see
things now—It 's never been the same before.”
He turned round and stared fiercely into her eyes.
“Do you believe I could do it?” he said.
“Of course I do.”
“Win back respect—make them forget yesterday—go on with the old
torture—” he shuddered and buried his face in his hands.
“I believe in you,” she answered steadfastly.
He drew a deep breath. “At last!”
“I believe in you.”
“You are not saying that only to comfort met”
“No; you know that I am not.”
“To come back—to go on—to face it all.”
“It's the hardest thing and the finest thing—I shall know—I shall always
remember.”
As he looked at her he knew that he might kiss her and that she would
not have drawn back—but she was not his. He faced it out in that
brief moment—all the ignominy, the mockery, the drudgery—the hell that
Moffatt's was. Was it really his chance? Was he really in some way a
new man, or was it only the passing emotion that moved him? Could he do
anything still with his poor old wreck of a soul?
There was a long silence. They had reached Rayner's Point. Here the sea
swept, in a great arc to left and right. Sea and sky were very faintly
blue. The sun broke the golden bands that bound it, the light flooded
the brown earth of the winter fields, the shining mist glittered through
the brown wood that hung like a cloud behind them on the horizon, a
white gull, breaking the stillness with its cries, swerved past them out
to sea.
Perrin drew a deep breath. “If you will help me, I 'll come back,” he
said.
The new day shone about their heads. IV.
Later, at the Comber's breakfast-table there was confusion. Mrs. Comber
was flushed and happy. It was true that this happy release was only for
a few weeks, but her “Freddie” was more genial and pleasant than he had
been since the days of their honeymoon and her boys were returning that
afternoon.
“Freddie—another sausage—Oh! My dear Isabel, here's a bill from that
dressmaker again and she sent one only last week; she can't leave one
alone. Really, Freddie, another one won't hurt you—and I told her only
a month ago that I couldn't pay for that black silk until Easter—well,
some marmalade, then, if you won't have another—what train did you say
you were going to catch, Isabel? I'm so glad it's a sunny day—you were
up quite early weren't you, dear?—and I meant to go in and see what Mrs.
Dormer had to say about yesterday afternoon, you know, Mr. Perrin—and
now I shan't have a minute because Jane's been so silly about Freddie's
shirts and his pyjamas—she missed them when they came from the wash, so
that really it—but what did you think of it all, Isabel dear?”
“Of what all?” asked Isabel.
“Why, Mr. Perrin, of course. Poor man, of course he's been queer all
this time—anyone could see, but really—I wonder what he 'll do now?”
“I expect that he 'll come back,” said Isabel.
“Come back? Well! But of course Moy-Thompson will have him back if he
can. That would keep him quiet. Then he could pretend to the governors
that it was simply nerves—which it was mostly, I should think. I'm sure
we were all nervy enough for anything. I'm sure I've been most queer all
this term. And then his quarreling like that with Archie and everything.
Oh! Yes, Moy-Thompson will keep him if he can—under his thumb.”
Freddie Comber had left the room. The two women were alone.
Mrs. Comber was sitting at the table, with her mouth wide open, like a
fish, counting on the cloth with her fingers in order to remember the
things that she ought to do.
“Dear?” said Isabel.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Comber, smiling.
“I want you to do something for me.”
“Anything in the world, dear, you know. Five, Mrs. Johnson's hill for
that ironing; six, Freddie's socks; seven, the suit—”
“No, dear, please—just for a minute I want you to listen altogether to
me.”
“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Comber stopped her counting.
“Well, it's this. Mr. Perrin is coming back. I saw him this morning—”
“You saw him this morning! Isabel!”
“Yes. We both went out to see the sun rise—to the Golden View. He talked
to me. Dear, I never understood things before—things or people. There
must be so many people like that who are so splendid inside and so dull
outside.”
“I don't want to be unkind, dear,” Mrs. Comber answered slowly, “but I
cannot believe that Mr. Perrin is splendid inside—I can't really.”
“Oh, but he is, he is! He's coming back like a hero. Why, when I think
of Archie and myself and our lives—and all the other people with lives
like them—and then when I think of all the awkward, bad-mannered, stiff,
jolty people who are heroes every day they live, I'm ashamed!”
Mrs. Comber was astonished. “Well, my dear,” she said, “it does seem to
have affected you—really. Of course I want to be kind to everybody—even
Mrs. Dormer—and of course I 'll believe what you say, and I'm sure I'm
very sorry for him, and it won't be pleasant for him coming back.”
“No,” said Isabel. “It won't—no one ought ever to come back here
again—but if only you 'll be a friend to him—
“You see,” she went on again, “he's the kind of man whom those things
matter to so frightfully. And no one's ever taken any interest in him or
any trouble—and now if you and I—”
“Anything,” said Mrs. Comber, “that you want me to do.”
“I sometimes think,” said Isabel, “that the world's topsy-turvy. People
seem to put so much value on all the outside things, and if someone's
ugly and awkward—”
Her gaze through the window was arrested by the sight of a cab at the
door of the Lower School. The porter came out with a brown portmanteau—a
very old brown portmanteau—and he put it on the cab. It was a very old
cab, and a very old horse and a very old driver.
Mr. Perrin, wearing a bowler that was too small for him and in his old
shabby overcoat, got into the cab.
The bag bounced about on the roof as the old horse stumbled away.
Would he come back and fight it out? She knew, with certain faith, that
he would.
Would he win through? She did not know, but in the sun and glorious
beauty of that day she seemed to get her answer.
Meanwhile the old cab rumbled down the Brown Hill.
“It shall be all right, next term,” said Mr. Perrin.
THE END