I
When Peter Guthrie laughed the rooks stirred on the old trees behind the
Bodleian and the bored cab-drivers who lolled in uncomfortable attitudes
on their cabs in St. Giles perked up their heads.
He threw open his door one morning and leaving one of these laughs of
his rolling round the quad of St. John's College found the recumbent
form of Nicholas Kenyon all among his cushions as usual, and as usual
smoking his cigarettes and reading his magazines. The words "as usual"
seemed to be stamped on his forehead.
"What d'you think?" cried Peter, filling the room like a thirty-mile
gale.
"You ought to know that I don't think. It's a form of exercise that I
never indulge in." Kenyon lit a fresh cigarette from the one which he
had half-smoked and with peculiar expertness flicked the end out of the
window into St. Giles Street, which ran past the great gates of the
college. He hoped that it might have fallen on somebody's head, but he
didn't get up to see.
"Well," said Peter, "I was coming down the High just now and an awful
pretty girl passed with a Univ. man. She looked at me--thereby very
nearly laying me flat on my face--and I heard her ask, 'Who's that?' It
was the man's answer that makes me laugh. He said: 'Oh, he's only a
Rhodes scholar!'" And off he went again.
Nicholas Kenyon raised his immaculate person a few inches and looked
round at his friend. The Harvard man, with his six-foot-one of excellent
muscles and sinews, his square shoulders and deep chest, and his fine,
honest, alert and healthy face, made most people ask who he was. "If I'd
been you," said Kenyon, "I should have made a mental note of that Univ.
blighter in order to land him one the next time you saw him, that he
wouldn't easily forget."
"Why? I liked it, from a man of his type. I've been 'only a damned
Rhodes scholar' to all the little pussy purr-purrs ever since I first
walked the High in my American-made clothes. I owe that fellow no
grudge; and if I meet that girl again--which I shall make a point of
doing--I bet you anything you like that his scoffing remark will lend a
touch of romance to me which will be worth a lot."
"Was she something out of the ordinary?"
"Quite," said Peter.
He hung his straw hat on the electric bulb, threw off his coat, rolled
up his sleeves and started to tidy up his rooms with more energy and
deftness than is possessed by the average housemaid. He flicked the
little pile of cigarette ash, which Kenyon had dropped on the floor,
into a corner. He gathered the weekly illustrated papers which Kenyon
had flung aside and put them on a back shelf, and then he picked up the
man Kenyon in his arms, deposited him in a wide arm-chair in front of
the fireplace and started punching all the cushions.
Kenyon looked ineffably bored. "Good God!" he said. "What's all this
energy? You shatter my nervous system."
"My dear chap," said Peter, "you seem to forget that this is Commem. and
that my people have come three thousand miles to see their little Peter
in his little rooms. I'm therefore polishing up the knocker of the big
front door. My mother has a tidy mind and I want my father to gain the
impression that I'm methodical and responsible. He has a quick eye. They
wired me from London last night to say that they'll be here at five
o'clock to tea. I dashed round to the Randolph early this morning to
book rooms for them. Gee, it's a big party, too! I can't make out why
they want so many rooms. It'll be like my sister to have brought over
one of her school friends. I guess I shall be darned glad to see them,
anyway."
There was a touch of excitement in the boy's voice, and his sun-tanned,
excellent face showed the delight that he felt. He had not seen his
mother, brother and sister for two years, having spent his vacations in
England.
Nicholas Kenyon got up slowly. He did everything slowly. "Well," he
said, "I thank God that my people don't bother me on these festive
occasions. To my way of thinking the influx of fathers and mothers into
Oxford makes the whole place provincial. However, I can understand your
childish glee. You are pretty badly dipped, I understand, and with the
true psychology of the rasping undergraduate you are first going to
throw the glamour of the city of spires over your untravelled parent and
then touch him for a fairly considerable cheque."
Peter gave a sort of laugh. "Touch my father!" he said. "Not much. I
shall put my case up to my mother. She's the one who does these little
things."
Kenyon was faintly interested. Being perennially impecunious himself and
unable to raise money even from the loan sharks, he looked to the advent
of Peter's parents to bring him at least fifty pounds. He always
borrowed from Peter.
"Oh, I see," he said. "It's the old lady who carries the money-bags, is
it?"
"No, it isn't," said Peter; "but as a matter of fact I never have gone
to my father for anything and I don't think I ever shall. I don't know
why it is, but none of us have ever been able to screw up courage to say
more than 'Good-morning' and 'Good-night' to the Governor, although of
course we all think he is a very wonderful person."
Kenyon yawned. "I see," he said. "Bad luck. I should hate to have such a
disagreeable devil for a father--one of the martinet type, who says
_don't_ all the time when he ought to say _do_, and makes home a sort of
pocket-hell for everybody."
Peter twisted round and spoke quickly and rather warmly. "So should I,"
he said, "but luckily I haven't. I didn't want to suggest that my father
was that type of man. He's one of the very best--one of the men who
count for something in my country. He's worked like a dog to give us a
chance in life and his generosity makes me personally sometimes feel
almost indecent. I mean that I feel that I have taken advantage of
him,--but--but, somehow or other,--oh, I don't know,--we don't seem to
know each other--that's all. He hasn't the knack of winning our
confidence--or something. So it comes to this: when we want anything we
ask mother and she gets it for us. That's all there's to it. And look
here, Nick, I want you to be frightfully nice to the Governor. Get out
of your ice-box and warm up to the old man. I can't, you see; but as he
has come all this way to look me up I want somebody to show some
appreciation."
With his eyes to the small relief which the visit of Dr. Hunter Guthrie,
of New York City, might bring him, Nicholas Kenyon nodded. "Rely on me,"
he said. "Butter shan't melt in my mouth; and before your father leaves
Oxford I'll make him feel that he's been created a Baronet and appointed
Physician in Ordinary to His Majesty the King. Well, so long, Peter! I'm
lunching with Lascelles at the House this morning. I'll drop in to tea
and hand cakes round to your beloved family."
"Right-o," said Peter. "That'll be great!" And when the door closed and
he found himself alone he arranged a certain number of silver cups which
he had won in athletics all along his mantel-piece, for his father to
see, gazed at them for a moment with a half-smile of rather
self-conscious pride, finished tidying his room, gazed affectionately
for a few moments at the familiar sight of Pusey House through the
leaf-crowded trees that lined the sunny street, and then sat down to his
piano and played a rag-time with all that perfect excellence and sense
of rhythm which had opened the most insular doors to him during his
first days as a fresher.