Oh, my goodness! Oh, all ye goddesses and gods! Here's a mess. Mr.
Worters has been reading Ford's inflammatory note-book.
"This my own fault," said Ford. "I should have labelled it 'Practically
Private.' How could he know he was not meant to look inside?"
I spoke out severely, as an _employé_ should. "My dear boy, none of
that. The label came unstuck. That was why Mr. Worters opened the book.
He never suspected it was private. See--the label's off."
"Scratched off," Ford retorted grimly, and glanced at his ankle.
I affect not to understand. "The point is this. Mr. Worters is thinking
the matter over for four-and-twenty hours. If you take my advice you
will apologize before that time elapses."
"And if I don't?"
"You know your own affairs of course. But don't forget that you are
young and practically ignorant of life, and that you have scarcely any
money of your own. As far as I can see, your career practically depends
on the favour of Mr. Worters. You have laughed at him. He does not like
being laughed at. It seems to me that your course is obvious."
"Apology?"
"Complete."
"And if I don't?"
"Departure."
He sat down on the stone steps and rested his head on his knees. On the
lawn below us was Miss Beaumont, draggling about with some croquet
balls. Her lover was out in the meadow, superintending the course of the
asphalt path. For the path is to be made, and so is the bridge, and the
fence is to be built round Other Kingdom after all. In time Miss
Beaumont saw how unreasonable were her objections. Of her own accord,
one evening in the drawing-room, she gave her Harcourt permission to do
what he liked. "That wood looks nearer," said Ford.
"The inside fences have gone: that brings it nearer. But my dear
boy--you must settle what you're going to do."
"How much has he read?"
"Naturally he only opened the book. From what you showed me of it, one
glance would be enough."
"Did he open at the poems?"
"Poems?"
"Did he speak of the poems?"
"No. Were they about him?"
"They were not about him."
"Then it wouldn't matter if he saw them."
"It is sometimes a compliment to be mentioned," said Ford, looking up at
me. The remark had a stinging fragrance about it--such a fragrance as
clings to the mouth after admirable wine. It did not taste like the
remark of a boy. I was sorry that my pupil was likely to wreck his
career; and I told him again that he had better apologize.
"I won't speak of Mr. Worters' claim for an apology. That's an aspect
on which I prefer not to touch. The point is, if you don't apologize,
you go--where?"
"To an aunt at Peckham."
I pointed to the pleasant, comfortable land-scape, full of cows and
carriage-horses out at grass, and civil retainers. In the midst of it
stood Mr. Worters, radiating energy and wealth, like a terrestrial sun.
"My dear Ford--don't be heroic! Apologize."
Unfortunately I raised my voice a little, and Miss Beaumont heard me,
down on the lawn.
"Apologize?" she cried. "What about?" And as she was not interested in
the game, she came up the steps towards us, trailing her croquet mallet
behind her. Her walk was rather listless. She was toning down at last.
"Come indoors!" I whispered. "We must get out of this."
"Not a bit of it!" said Ford.
"What is it?" she asked, standing beside him on the step.
He swallowed something as he looked up at her. Suddenly I understood. I
knew the nature and the subject of his poems. I was not so sure now that
he had better apologize. The sooner he was kicked out of the place the
better.
In spite of my remonstrances, he told her about the book, and her first
remark was: "Oh, do let me see it!" She had no "proper feeling" of any
kind. Then she said: "But why do you both look so sad?"
"We are awaiting Mr. Worters' decision," said I.
"Mr. Inskip! What nonsense! Do you suppose Harcourt'll be angry?"
"Of course he is angry, and rightly so."
"But why?"
"Ford has laughed at him."
"But what's that!" And for the first time there was anger in her voice.
"Do you mean to say he'll punish some one who laughs at him? Why, for
what else--for whatever reason are we all here? Not to laugh at each
other! I laugh at people all day. At Mr. Ford. At you. And so does
Harcourt. Oh, you've misjudged him! He won't--he couldn't be angry with
people who laughed."
"Mine is not nice laughter," said Ford. "He could not well forgive me."
"You're a silly boy." She sneered at him. "You don't know Harcourt. So
generous in every way. Why, he'd be as furious as I should be if you
apologized. Mr. Inskip, isn't that so?"
"He has every right to an apology, I think."
"Right? What's a right? You use too many new words.
'Rights'--'apologies'--'society'--'position'--I don't follow it. What
are we all here for, anyhow?"
Her discourse was full of trembling lights and shadows--frivolous one
moment, the next moment asking why Humanity is here. I did not take the
Moral Science Tripos, so I could not tell her.
"One thing I know--and that is that Harcourt isn't as stupid as you two.
He soars above conventions. He doesn't care about 'rights' and
'apologies.' He knows that all laughter is nice, and that the other nice
things are money and the soul and so on."
The soul and so on! I wonder that Harcourt out in the meadows did not
have an apoplectic fit.
"Why, what a poor business your life would be," she continued, "if you
all kept taking offence and apologizing! Forty million people in England
and all of them touchy! How one would laugh if it was true! Just
imagine!" And she did laugh. "Look at Harcourt though. He knows better.
He isn't petty like that. Mr. Ford! He isn't petty like that. Why,
what's wrong with your eyes?"
He rested his head on his knees again, and we could see his eyes no
longer. In dispassionate tones she informed me that she thought he was
crying. Then she tapped him on the hair with her mallet and said:
"Cry-baby! Cry-cry-baby! Crying about nothing!" and ran laughing down
the steps. "All right!" she shouted from the lawn. "Tell the cry-baby to
stop. I'm going to speak to Harcourt!"
We watched her go in silence. Ford had scarcely been crying. His eyes
had only become large and angry. He used such swear-words as he knew,
and then got up abruptly, and went into the house. I think he could not
bear to see her disillusioned. I had no such tenderness, and it was with
considerable interest that I watched Miss Beaumont approach her lord.
She walked confidently across the meadow, bowing to the workmen as they
raised their hats. Her languor had passed, and with it her suggestion of
"tone." She was the same crude, unsophisticated person that Harcourt had
picked out of Ireland--beautiful and ludicrous in the extreme, and--if
you go in for pathos--extremely pathetic.
I saw them meet, and soon she was hanging on his arm. The motion of his
hand explained to her the construction of bridges. Twice she interrupted
him: he had to explain everything again. Then she got in her word, and
what followed was a good deal better than a play. Their two little
figures parted and met and parted again, she gesticulating, he most
pompous and calm. She pleaded, she argued and--if satire can carry half
a mile--she tried to be satirical. To enforce one of her childish points
she made two steps back. Splash! She was floundering in the little
stream.
That was the _dénouement_ of the comedy. Harcourt rescued her, while the
workmen crowded round in an agitated chorus. She was wet quite as far as
her knees, and muddy over her ankles. In this state she was conduced
towards me, and in time I began to hear words; "Influenza--a slight
immersion--clothes are of no consequence beside health--pray, dearest,
don't worry--yes, it must have been a shock--bed! bed! I insist on bed!
Promise? Good girl. Up the steps to bed then."
They parted on the lawn, and she came obediently up the steps. Her face
was full of terror and bewilderment.
"So you've had a wetting, Miss Beaumont!"
"Wetting? Oh, yes. But, Mr. Inskip--I don't understand: I've failed."