_SCOTT IS LONELY._
Bravery Reginald Scott, of Merton, was one of Gobion's chief admirers.
He thought that no one was so clever or so good, and felt sure that his
friend's traducers--and they were many--had never really got down below
the crust of cynicism and surface immorality of mind as he had done. He
certainly knew that Gobion occasionally drank more than was good for
him, but he put it down to misadventure more than taste.
He was a good young man, rather commonplace in intellect, but of a
blameless life and an unsuspicious, happy temperament.
A man who had always been on the best of terms with an adoring family
and a wealthy father, he ambled easily through life, enjoying
everything, and being especially happy when he was worked up into an
emotion by a poem or sunset.
Generally tethered in the shallows of everyday circumstances, his mind
experienced undimmed delight in acute sensation.
He had one great motif running like a silver thread through his
consciousness--his love for Gobion; and every night he humbly and
earnestly prayed for him, kneeling at a little _prie-Dieu_ painted
green.
To him there had been something very sacred in his relations with this
man. One night Gobion had stayed behind after a wine party, and had sat
late, staring into the fire and talking simply and hopefully about the
trials and temptations of a young man's life. Very frankly he had talked
with a nobleness of ideal and breadth of thought that fascinated Scott
and made him feel drawn close to this strange handsome boy who was so
assured and so hopeful.
After that first night there had been others when they sat alone, and
Gobion talked airily with a fantastic wealth of fancy and sweetness of
expression.
Scott thought he could see in all this man's conversation a high purpose
and a stainless purity, made the more obvious by attempts at
concealment.
Then again, Gobion gave him the impression of being delightfully
unworldly, with no idea of the value of money, for he would come to him
unconcernedly and borrow ten pounds to get out of some scrape, with a
careless freedom that seemed to point to an absolute childishness in
money matters.
Scott always lent it, and gloried in the feeling that he was helping the
friend of his soul, albeit that Gobion had had most of his available
cash, and he knew his affairs were getting something precarious.
On the morning of the Wadham debate he lay in bed half dozing, with a
pleasing sense of anticipation.
Gobion was coming to a _tête-à-tête_ breakfast, and he wondered what he
would talk about, whether he would wear what he called his "explicit"
tie or that green suit which became him so well.
Not far away in Exeter, the object of his thoughts was getting up and
carefully dressing. He was thinking over the part he would have to play
at breakfast, and devising some way of breaking the news of his
approaching flight, and thinking out a plan for getting as much money as
he could to take him up to town.
He had finished his toilette, and was passing out of his bedroom when he
noticed that he looked in capital health, and not at all anxious or
unhappy enough for a ruined man.
Scott would doubtless never have noticed, but Gobion was nothing if not
an artist, and had a hatred of incompleteness.
Accordingly, he pulled a box of water-colour paints out of a drawer in
his writing table, and carefully pencilled two dark sepia lines under
his eyes, several times sponging them off till he had got what he
considered a proper effect.
About a quarter after nine Scott's bedroom door opened unceremoniously,
and Gobion came in.
Scott jumped up.
"I'm beastly sorry, old man, to be so slack. I'll be up in a minute. Is
brekker in?"
"Never mind, old man; I'll go back into the next room and wait."
When breakfast was brought they sat for a time in silence. Then Gobion
spoke.
"Old man, the game's up."
"What!"
"I'm done--utterly."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know how unlucky I have been in exams, and what a small
allowance I have always had?"
"Yes."
"Well, the guvnor has written saying that I am idle and hopeless, and
has taken my name off the books and refused to have anything more to do
with me."
Scott gasped. "Oh, Lord, I _am_ so sorry--dear old man--never mind,
remember we promised to stick to each other. Now let's talk it over.
What do you propose to do?"
"I shall go up to town this afternoon if I can get some money. I have
had some work offered me on _The Pilgrim_, and I am sure to get along
somehow."
"Of course you will, old man, you always succeed--look here, have you
got any 'oof?"
"Not a penny."
"Well, I've got about twenty pounds I don't want. You had better take
them."
"Thanks awfully, old chap, but I don't think I will, I owe you too much
as it is. I don't know when I shall be able to repay you."
"Oh, but do, old man, you _must_ have some cash."
"Well, if----"
"Ah, I knew you wouldn't mind; let me write you a cheque, you can cash
it at the Old Bank this morning."
And he got out his cheque-book and wrote it. Gobion took it without
saying anything, but he stretched out his hand and looked him in the
face. With wonderful intuition he knew exactly what the other expected,
and Scott felt repaid by his warm grasp and silence, which, as Gobion
expected, he mistook for emotion.
After a melancholy cigarette Gobion got up and said, "You'll come and
see me off, of course? I've got a lot to do, but I will have tea here
at four and you can come to the station after. My train leaves at 5.30.
Do you mind telling Robertson and Fleming, and anyone else you come
across, and getting them to come too?"
The sun was shining when Gobion got out, and he thought that his first
success was a good omen for the future. He strolled up to the bank
feeling well fed and happy, and the strangeness of his position induced
a pleasing sense of excitement and anticipation. He liked to think that
he would be in the Strand that same evening.
When he had got his money he went to Condamine's rooms in Grove Street,
where, as he expected, he found Sturtevant. He wore the yellow silk tie
this morning.
They were having breakfast, and Condamine, unwashed and unshaven,
dressed in pyjamas, with his feet thrust into a venerable pair of
dancing pumps with the bows gone, was indignantly holding forth on the
unapproachable manner of some barmaid or other whom he had discovered.
Gobion took the proffered drink. "First this mornin'," he said, and
then, "I'm going down to-day."
"Game up?" said Sturtevant. These men were never excited.
"Exactly. When shall you be up?"
"I shall be in my chambers, 6, Middle Temple Lane, in three weeks' time,
ready for a campaign in Fleet Street; we'll work together."
"Right you are; but aren't you afraid of my queering your pitch?"
"I'll take the risk of that. When do you go?"
"Five-thirty train."
"Shall we come to the station?" said Condamine.
"No, don't, the 'good' set will be there, and as I hope to carry off
most of their spare cash, I think it would be wiser to depart in the
odour of sanctity, and you'd rather spoil it."
"Right oh!" said the president, using one of his favourite phrases, and
then raising his glass to his lips, "The old toast?"
"The old toast," said Condamine, "the three consonants"; and they drank
it and said good-bye.
These three men were bound together by many an orgie, many a shady
intrigue and modest swindle; they had no illusions about each other, but
now they all felt a keen pang of regret that their little society was to
be broken up.
Gobion went out feeling sorry, but he had too much to do to indulge in
sentiment. He hoped to turn his twenty pounds into forty before lunch.
As he went into the High, bells were ringing, tutors hurrying along, and
men going to lectures in cap and gown. A group of men in "Newmarkets"
came round the corner of King Edward Street, going to hunt, and nearly
knocked down Professor Max Müller, who was carrying a brown paper parcel
and walking very fast. The Jap shop-girl in a new hat passed with a
smile, and a Christchurch man and rowing blue came out of the "Mitre,"
where, no doubt, he had been looking over the morning paper, and
gleaning information about his own state of health. The scene was bright
and animated, and the winter's sun cast a glamour over everything.
Nearly every other man stopped and spoke to Gobion, and he felt
strangely moved to think that he would soon be out of it all and
forgotten.
He turned into the stable-yard of the "Bell," and stood there for a
moment irresolutely, frowning, and then with a quick movement went into
the private bar.
It was quite empty of customers, and a girl sat before the fire with her
feet on the fender reading a novel.
She jumped up when Gobion came in, and he put his arm round her waist
and kissed her. She was a pretty, fresh-looking girl, and would have
been prettier still if she had not so obviously darkened her eyelashes
with a burnt hairpin.
Gobion sat down on the chair, and pulled her on to his knee, smiling at
her, and puffing rings of cigarette smoke at her.
She settled herself comfortably, leaning back in his arms, and began to
rattle away in a rather high-pitched voice about a raid of the proctors
the night before.
As is the habit of the more "swagger" sort of barmaid, she used the
word "awfully" (with the accent on the _aw_) once or twice in nearly
every sentence, and it was curious to hear how glibly the Varsity slang
and contractions slipped from her.
He played with a loose curl of hair, thinking what a pretty little fool
she was.
"Maudie dear, I'm going away."
"Do you mean for _good_?"
"I'm afraid so, darling."
She opened her eyes wide and puckered up her forehead. She looked very
nice, and he kissed her again.
"I don't understand," she said.
"Well, the fact is the guvnor has stopped supplies, and I'm sent down."
"And you're going to leave _me_?... and we've had such an awfully jolly
time ... oh, you cruel boy!"
And she began to sob.
He grinned perplexedly over her head.
" ... Never mind, dearest, I'll write to you and come down and see you
soon."
"I don't know _what_ I shall do.... I l-liked you s-so much better than
the others.... _Don't_ go."
"But, Maudie, I must. Look here, I will come in after lunch and arrange
things properly. I'm in a fearful hurry now, and I shan't go till
to-morrow."
"Really!"
"Oh, rather; now give me a B. and S. I really must depart."
She got up from his knee, and went behind the counter in the corner of
the room.
"I'm going to have some first," she said.
"You're a naughty little girl!"
"Am I? you rather like it, don't you?" ... She looked tempting when she
smiled.
"May I?"
"You've had such a lot!"
"Just one to keep me going till after lunch."
"Stupid boy; well, there----"
"That was ve-ry nice. Good-bye for the present, dear."
She made a little mock curtsey. "I shall expect you at two ... dear!"
He kissed his hand and shut the door, breathing a sigh of relief when he
got outside.
"She won't see me again. I'm well out of that," he thought, his cheeks
still burning with her hot kisses.
"Now for the worst ordeal."
Father Gray came out of the private chapel of the clergy-house in his
cassock and biretta.
He had been hearing the somewhat long confession of an innocuous but
unnecessary Keble man, and felt inclined to be irritable. He met Gobion
going up to his room.
His pale lined face lighted up--most people's faces did when they saw
Gobion.
"You here, dear boy? Come in--come into my room."
He opened the door, and went in with his hand on Gobion's shoulder. The
room was panelled in dark green, and warmed by a gas stove. The shelves
were filled with books, and books littered the floor and chairs, and
even invaded two big writing-tables covered with papers. Over the
mantelpiece was hung a print of Andrea Mantegna's Adoration of the Magi.
On the wall opposite was a great crucifix, while underneath it was a
little shelf covered with worn black velvet, with two silver
candlesticks standing on it.
Behind a green curtain stood an iron frame, holding a basin and jug of
water.
All the great Anglican priests had been in that room at one time or
another.
From it retreats were organized, the innumerable squabbles of the
various sisterhoods settled, and arrangements made for the private
confession of High Church bishops who required a tonic.
In fact, this business-like little room was in itself the head-quarters
of what that amusing print _The English Churchman_ would call "the most
Romanizing members of the Ritualistic party."
They sat down. Father Gray said, "You have something to tell me?"
"Yes," Gobion answered sadly, "I am ruined."
"Oh, come, come! What's all this? A boy like you can't be ruined."
"My father has put the last touch to his unkindness, and quite given me
up. You know how I have tried to work and lead a decent life; but he
won't listen, and I'm going to work at journalism in London and take my
chance."
"My poor boy, my poor boy!" And the old priest was silent.
Then he said, "Do you think you can keep yourself?"
"I am sure I can, if only I can tide over the first three months. I
expect it will be very hard at first though."
"Have you any money?"
"No; and I am heavily in debt into the bargain."
"Oh, well, well, we must manage all that somehow. I won't let you
starve. You have always been so frank with me, and told me all your
troubles. We understand one another; you must let me lend you some for a
time."
"It's awfully good of you."
"Oh, nonsense, these things are nothing between you and me; here is a
cheque for five-and-twenty pounds, that will keep you going for a month
or two. You know I'm not exactly a poor man. Now you'll stay to lunch,
the Bishop's coming."
"No, thanks, I won't stay, I'll say good-bye now; I want to be alone
and think. Thank you so very much; I haven't led a very happy life at
Oxford, but I _have_ tried ... and you've been so kind.... I am afraid I
am utterly unworthy of it all"; and his voice trembled artistically.
"My boy," said the old man, and his face shone, "you have been foolish,
and wasted your chances. You have not been very bad. Thank God that you
are pure and don't drink. God bless you--go out and prosper, keep
innocence; now good-bye, good-bye"; and he made the sign of the cross in
the air.
Gobion got outside somehow, feeling rather unwell. He did not feel
particularly pleased with his success at first, but the sun, and the
crowd of people, and the wonderful irrepressible gaiety of the High just
before lunch on a fine day cheered him up; and he cashed the second
cheque, enjoying the look of surprise on the clerk's face, which was an
unusual thing, because bank clerks, though always discourteous, are
seldom surprised.
Then he went back to college and packed his portmanteau.
He left most of his books, and took only clothes and things that did not
require much room. Scott would send up the heavy things after him. He
told his scout he was going down for a few days, and that Mr. Scott of
Merton would forward all letters. He knew that if his intended departure
became known his creditors would rush to the Rector, and he would
probably be detained.
He lingered over lunch, making an excellent meal, drinking a good deal
of brandy, and thinking over the position. As far as he could see things
were not so very bad; he could probably earn enough by journalism to
keep him, and he had forty-five pounds in his pocket, while the
pleasures of London awaited him.
He lay back in an armchair, taking deep draughts of hot cigarette smoke
into his lungs, smiling at the idea of his morning's work, and wondering
how he had done it--analyzing and dissecting his own fascination.
It is a curious thing that the more evil we are the more intensely we
are absorbed in our own personality. The clever scoundrel is always an
egotist; and Gobion liked nothing better than to admire himself quietly
and dispassionately.
Leaning back half asleep, looking lazily at the purring, spitting fire,
his thoughts turned swiftly into memories, and a vista of the last few
years opened up before him.
He saw himself a boy of fifteen, keenly sensitive and inordinately vain.
He remembered how his eager hunger for admiration had led him to pose
even to his father and mother; how, when he found out he was clever, he
used to lie carefully to conceal his misdoings from them. Gradually and
slowly he had grown more evil and more bitter at the narrowness which
misunderstood him.
When love had gone the deterioration was more marked, and he threw
himself into grossness. His imagination was too quick and vivid to let
him live in vice wholly without remorse, and every now and again he
wildly and passionately confessed his sins and turned his back on them,
as he thought, for ever. Then after a week or two the emotional fervour
of repentance would wear off, and he would plunge more deeply into vice,
and lead a jolly, wicked life.
But keenest and most poignant of all his memories were the quiet summer
evenings with Scott or Taylor, when the windows were open, and the long
days sank gently into painted evenings. It was at times like these, when
all the charm and mellow beauty of evening floating down on the ancient
town of spires sensuously bade him forget the life he was leading, and
thrilled all the poetry and fervour in him, that he would talk simply
and beautifully, and stir his friends into a passion of enthusiasm by
his ideals. The gloriousness of youth bound them all together, and in
the summer quiet of some old-world college garden the wolf and the lambs
held sweet converse, generally in the chosen language of that university
exclusiveness which is at once so pretty and so delightful, so impotent,
and yet full of possibilities. Detached scenes rose up ... the almost
painful æsthetic pleasure he had felt when he had gone to evensong at
Magdalen with Scott, and the scent of the summer seemed to penetrate and
be felt through the solemn singing and sonorous booming of the lessons.
... The High by moonlight--the most fairy-like scene in Europe. Scott's
arm in his, and the grey towers shimmering in the quivering moonspun
air.
A black cloud of horror and despair came down on him. He saw himself as
he was. For once he dared to look at his own evil heart, and no light
came to him in that dark hour.
* * * * *
A little before half-past five, nine or ten men stood on the platform of
the Great Western station talking together.
A group of what Gobion called the "good" set had come to see him go.
They stood round, sorrowfully pressing him to write and let them know
how he got on.
Fleming went to the bookstall and bought a great bundle of papers and
magazines, and Scott appeared at the door of the refreshment-room laden
with sandwiches and a flask of sherry.
They shook hands all round; it was the last time most of them saw him.
Sadly they said good-bye, and took a last look at his clear-cut face.
Scott claimed the last adieu, and leant into the carriage, pressing
Gobion's hand, afraid to speak. Gobion felt a horrible remorse, but he
choked down his emotion by an enormous effort of will.
The train began to move.
"God bless you, God bless you, old un," said Scott hoarsely.
"An epithet is the conclusion of a syllogism," said Gobion to himself,
lighting a cigarette as the train glided out of the station.
So he went his way, and they saw him no more.