The college slowly filled; the term began; Howard went back to his
work, and the perplexities of Windlow rather faded into the background.
He would behave very differently when he went there next. It should all
be cool, friendly, unemotional. But in spite of everything, his aunt's
words came sometimes into his mind, troubling it with a sudden thrill.
"Power, spirit, the development of life,"--were these real things, had
one somehow to put oneself into touch with them? Was the life of serene
and tranquil work but marking time, wasting opportunity? Had one
somehow to be stirred into action and reality? Was there something in
the background, which did not insist or drive or interfere with one's
inclinations, because it knew that it would be obeyed and yielded to
some time? Was it just biding its time, waiting, impelling but not
forcing one to change? It gave him an impulse to look closer at his own
views and aims, to consider what his motives really were, how far he
could choose, how much he could prevail, to what extent he could really
do as he hoped and desired. He was often haunted by a sense of living
in a mechanical unreality, of moving simply on lines of easy habit.
That was a tame, a flat business, perhaps; but it was what seemed to
happen.
And yet all the time he was more and more haunted by the thought of
Maud. He could not get her out of his head. Over and over again he
lived through the scenes of their meetings. Against the background of
the dusk, that slender figure outlined itself, the lines of her form,
her looks, her smiles; he went again and again through his talks with
her--the walk on the down, the sight of her in the dimly-lighted room;
he could hear the very tones of her low voice, and see the childlike
appeal of her eyes. Worst of all the scene at the Vicarage, the book
held in her slender fingers, her look of bewilderment and
distress--what a pompous ass he had been, how stupid and coarse! He
thought of writing to her; he did write--but the dignified patronage of
his elder-brotherly style sickened him, and he tore up his unfinished
letter. Why could he not simply say that he cared for her, and was
miserable at having hurt her? That was just, he thought, what he must
not do; and yet the idea that she might be making other friends and
acquaintances was a jealous horror to him. He thought of writing to his
aunt about it--he did write regularly to her, but he could not explain
what he had done. Strangest of all, he hardly recognised it as love. He
did not face the idea of a possible life with Maud. It was to be an
amiable and brotherly relation, with a frank confidence and an
outspoken affection. He lost his old tranquil spirits in these
reveries. It was painful to him to find how difficult it was becoming
to talk to the undergraduates; his mild and jocose ironies seemed to
have deserted him. He saw little of Jack; they were elaborately
unaffected with each other, but each felt that there had been a sort of
exposure, and it seemed impossible to regain the old relation.
One morning he had an unpleasant surprise. The Dean of the College, Mr.
Gretton, a tall, rather grimly handsome man, who was immensely
conscientious and laborious, and did his work as well as a virtuous man
could, who was not interested in education, and frankly bored by the
irresponsibility of undergraduates, walked into his rooms one morning
and said, "I hope I don't interrupt you? I want to have a word with you
about Sandys, as he is your cousin. There was a dinner in College last
night--a club, I think--Guthrie and that lot--and Sandys got undeniably
drunk. They were making a horrible row about two o'clock, and I went
down and dispersed them. There were some outside men there whose names
I took; but Sandys was quite out of control, and spoke very
impertinently to me. He must come and apologise, or I shall ask that he
may be sent down. He is a respectable man on the whole, so I shall not
push it to extremes. But he will be gated, of course, and I shall write
to his father. I thought you had better see him, and try if you can do
anything. It is a great nuisance, and the less said about it the
better; but of course we can't stand this kind of thing, and it had
better be stopped at once."
"Yes, I will see him at once," said Howard. "I am very sorry. I did not
think he would play the fool like that."
"One never knows!" said the Dean; "to speak plainly, I don't think he
is doing much good here. Rather too much a man of the world for my
taste. But there is nothing particular against him, and I don't want to
be hard on him."
Howard sent for Jack at once. He came in, in an obviously rebellious
frame of mind.
"I know," he said. "Yes, of course I was a fool; but it isn't worth
making a row about. I don't go in for soaking, like some of the men who
don't get caught, and I have no intention of going to the bad, if that
is what you mean."
"You are an ass!" said Howard, "a real ass! Now don't say a word yet,
till I have told you what I think. You may have your say afterwards. I
don't care twopence about your getting drunk once in a way. It's a
stupid thing to do, to my mind, and I don't see the point of it. I
don't consider you a reprobate, nor am I going to take a high line
about drunkenness; I know perfectly well that you are no more likely to
take to drink than the Master is. But it isn't good enough. You put
yourself on the wrong side, you give people a wrong idea of yourself.
You get disapproved of by all the stupid and ordinary people who don't
know you. Your father will be in an awful state of mind. It's an
experiment, I suppose? I imagine you thought you would like to see how
it felt to be drunk? Well, living at close quarters like this, that
sort of thing can't be done. And then you were rude to Gretton. What's
the point of that? He is a very good fellow, minds his own business,
doesn't interfere, and keeps things very straight here. That part of it
seems to me simply ungentlemanly. And in any case, you have no business
to hurt the people who care for you, even if you think they ought not
to be distressed. I don't say it is immoral, but I say it is a low
business from beginning to end."
Jack, who bore signs of his overnight experience, gave Howard a smile.
"That's all right!" he said. "I don't object to that! You have rather
taken the wind out of my sails. If you had said I was a sensual brute,
I should have just laughed. It is such NONSENSE the way these men go
on! Why I was lunching with Gretton the other day, and Corry told a
story about Wordsworth as an undergraduate getting drunk in Milton's
rooms at Christ's, and how proud the old man was of it to the end of
his life. Gretton laughed, and thought it a joke; and then when one
gets roaring drunk, they turn up their eyes and say it is unmanly and
so on. Why can't they stick to one line? If you go to bump-suppers and
dinners, and just manage to carry your liquor, they think you a good
sort of fellow, with no sort of nonsense about you--'a little natural
boyish excitement'--you know the sort of rot. One glass more, and you
are among the sinners."
"I know," said Howard, "and I perceive that I have had the benefit of
your thought-out oration after all!"
Jack smiled rather sheepishly, and then said, "Well, what's to be done?
Am I to be sent down?"
"Not if you do the right thing," said Howard. "You must just go to
Gretton and say you are very sorry you got drunk, and still more sorry
you were impertinent. If you can contrive to show him that you think
him a good fellow, and are really vexed to have been such a bounder, so
much the better. That I leave to your natural eloquence. But you will
be gated, and he will write to your father."
Jack whistled. "I say, can't you stop that?" he said. "Father will be
fearfully upset."
"No, I can't," said Howard, "and I wouldn't if I could. This is the
music, and you have got to face it."
"Very well," said Jack rather glumly, "I suppose I must pay the score.
I'll go and grovel to Gretton. I was simply beastly to him. My frank
nature expanded in his presence."
Howard laughed. "Well, be off with you!" he said. "And I will tell you
what. I will write to your father, and tell him what I think."
"Then it will be all right," said Jack, greatly relieved. "Anything to
stop the domestic howl. I'll write too. After all, it is rather
convenient to have a cousin among the Dons; and, anyhow, you have had
your innings now. I was a fool, I admit. It won't happen again."
Howard wrote at once to the Vicar, and was rewarded by a long and
grateful letter. "It is a disreputable affair," he wrote, "and it has
upset me very much, and Maud even more. But you have put it in the
right light, and I am very grateful to you for your good offices. I
couldn't have believed it of Jack, but I look back to dear old
Pembroke, and I remember there was one occasion--but I need not revive
ancient memories, and I am sufficiently versed in human nature not to
waste indignation over a boyish escapade. I have ventured to address
letters to Mr. Gretton and the Master on the subject, apologising for
Jack's misdemeanour, and saying how much I appreciate the excellence of
the tone that prevails in the College."
What, however, pleased Howard still more was that Gretton spoke to him
after Hall and said, "I am much obliged to you, Kennedy, for your
prompt action. Sandys came and apologised to me in a very proper
manner, and entirely removed the disagreeable impression from my mind.
I owe this to your kindly intervention; and I must honestly say that I
thought well of Sandys. He did not attempt to excuse himself, or to
extenuate his fault. He showed very good feeling, and I believe that
henceforth his influence will be on the side of order. I was really
pleased with him."
Howard spoke to Jack again the following day, and said he was glad he
had done the thing thoroughly.
"Thoroughly?" said Jack; "I should think I did. I fairly licked the old
man's boots. We had quite an affecting scene. I rather think he gave me
his blessing, and I went away feeling that I had been almost
recommended to repeat my performance. Gretton's a sensible man. This is
a good College. The thing would have been mismanaged anywhere else; but
now I have not only an unblemished character, but I am like gold tried
in the furnace."
"One more thing," said Howard; "why not get your people to come up for
two or three days? It will clear off the whole affair. I think they
would like to be asked, and I should be very glad to help to look after
them."
"It will be a bore," said Jack, making a grimace; "it wrecks my health
to take people round to King's and Trinity. It simply knocks me up; but
I expect you are right, and I will ask them. You won't fail me? When I
go off duty, you will go on? If that is clearly understood, they shall
come. I know Maud would like to realise my background, as she says; and
my father will rush to the 'Varsity Library, and break the spirit of
the Pemmer Dons. He'll have the time of his life; but he deserves a
treat--he really wrote me a very decent letter. By George, though,
these emotional experiences are not in my line, though they reveal the
worth of suffering, as the Chaplain said in his Hospital Sermon last
Sunday."
Howard wrote a further note, saying that he hoped that Mr. Sandys and
Maud would be able to come; and it was soon arranged that they should
spend the inside of a week at Cambridge, before the May week, as the
Vicar said he had little taste for social pleasures, and had some
matters of considerable importance to turn up in the Library, to say
nothing of the intellectual stimulus he anticipated.