THE WINTER TERM
CHAPTER ONE
I
He breakfasted with Helen upon the first morning of the winter term,
inaptly named because winter does not begin until the term is over. They
had returned the evening before from a month's holiday in Cornwall and
now they were making themselves a little self-consciously at home in the
first-floor rooms that had been assigned to them in Lavery's. The room
in which they breakfasted overlooked the main quadrangle; the silver
coffee-pot on the table shimmered in the rays of the late summer sun.
Midway through the meal Burton, the porter at Lavery's, tapped at the
door and brought in the letters and the _Daily Telegraph_.
Speed said: "Hullo, that's luck!--I was thinking I should have to run
down the town to get my paper this morning."
Burton replied, with a hint of reproach in his voice: "No sir. It was
sent up from Harrington's as usual, sir. They always begin on the first
day of term, sir."
Speed nodded, curiously conscious of a thrill at the mention of the name
Harrington. Something made him suddenly nervous, so that he said,
boisterously, as if determined to show Burton at all costs that he was
not afraid of him: "Oh, by the way, Burton, you might shut that window a
little, will you?--there's a draught."
"Yes, sir," replied Burton, again with a hint of subdued reproachfulness
in his tone. While he was shutting the window, moving about very softly
and stealthily himself yet making a tremendous noise with everything
that had to be done with his large clumsy hands, it was necessary for
Speed and Helen to converse on casual and ordinary subjects.
Speed said: "I should think the ground's far too hard for rugger,
Helen."
She answered, somberly: "Yes, I daresay it is. It's really summer still,
isn't it?--And I'm so glad. I hate the winters."
"You hate the winters, eh?--Why's that?"
"It's so cold, and the pitches are all muddy, and there are horrid
locks-up after dark. Oh, I hate Millstead in winter-time."
He said, musingly: "We must have big fires when the cold weather comes,
anyway."
Then Burton departed, closing the door very delicately after him, and
the conversation languished. Speed glanced vaguely through his
correspondence. He was ever so slightly nervous. That month's honeymoon
in Cornwall had passed like a rapt and cloudless vision, but ever beyond
the horizon of it had been the thought of this return to Millstead for
the winter term. How the return to a place where he had been so happy
and of which he had such wonderful memories could have taken in his mind
the semblance of an ordeal, was a question that baffled him entirely. He
felt strangely and unaccountably shy of entering the Masters'
Common-Room again, of meeting Clanwell and Ransome and Pritchard and the
rest, of seeing once again all the well-known faces of the boys whose
summer vacations had been spent so much less eventfully than his. And
yet, as he sat at the breakfast-table and saw Helen opposite him, a
strange warming happiness surged up within him and made him long for the
initial ordeal to be over so that he could pass on to the pure and
wonderful life ahead, that life in which Helen and Millstead would reign
jointly and magnificently. Surely he could call himself blessed with the
most amazing good fortune, to be happily married at the age of
twenty-three and installed in just the position which, more than any
other in the world, he had always coveted!--Consciousness of his supreme
happiness made him quicken with the richest and most rapturous
enthusiasm; he would, he decided in a sudden blinding moment, make
Lavery's the finest of all the houses at Millstead; he would develop
alike the work and the games and the moral tone until the fame of
Lavery's spread far beyond its local boundaries and actually enhanced
the reputation of Millstead itself. Such achievements were not, he knew,
beyond the possibilities of an energetic housemaster, and he, young and
full of enthusiasms, would be a living fount of energy. All the proud
glory of life was before him, and in the fullness of that life there was
nothing that he might not do if he chose.
All that day he was at the mercy alternately of his tumultuous dreams of
the future and of a presaging nervousness of the imminent ordeals. In
the morning he was occupied chiefly with clerical work, but in the
afternoon, pleading a few errands in town, he took his bicycle out of
the shed and promised Helen that he would not be gone longer than an
hour or so. He felt a little sad to leave her, because he knew that with
the very least encouragement she would have offered to come with him.
Somehow, he would not have been pleased for her to do that; he felt
acutely self-conscious, vaguely yet miserably apprehensive of trials
that were in wait for him. In a few days, of course, everything would be
all right.
He did not cycle into the town, but along the winding Millstead lane
that led away from the houses and into the uplands around Parminters.
The sun was glorious and warm, and the trees of that deep and heavy
green that had not, so far, more than the faintest of autumnal tints in
it. Along the lane twisting into the cleft of Parminters, memories
assailed him at every yard. He had been so happy here--and here--and
here; here he had laughed loudly at something she had said; here she had
made one of her childish yet incomparably wise remarks. Those old serene
days, those splendid flaming afternoons of the summer term, had been so
sweet and exquisite and fragrantly memorable to him that he could not
forbear to wonder if anything could ever be so lovely again.
Deep down beneath all the self-consciousness and apprehension and morbid
researching of the past, he knew that he was richly and abundantly
happy. He knew that she was still a child in his own mind; that life
with her was dream-like as had been the rapt anticipation of it; that
the dream, so far from marriage dispelling it, was enhanced by all the
kindling intimacies that swung them both, as it were, into the same
ethereal orbit. When he thought about it he came to the conclusion that
their marriage must be the most wonderful marriage in the world. She was
a child, a strange, winsome fairy-child, streaked with the most fitful
and sombre passion that he had ever known. Nobody, perhaps, would guess
that he and she were man and wife. The thought gratified his sense of
the singularity of what had happened. At the Cornish hotel where they
had stayed he had fancied that their identity as a honeymoon couple had
not been guessed at all; he had thought, with many an inward chuckle,
that people were supposing them to be mysteriously and romantically
unwedded.
Time passed so slowly on that first day of the winter term. He rode back
at the end of the afternoon with the wind behind him, swinging him in
through the main gateway where he could see the windows of Lavery's pink
in the rays of the setting sun. Lavery's!--Lavery's!--Throughout the day
he had found himself repeating the name constantly, until the syllables
lost all shred of meaning. Lavery's!--Lav-er-izz.... The sounds boomed
in his ears as he entered the tiny drawing-room in which Helen was
waiting for him with the tea almost ready. Tea time!--In a few hours the
great machine of Millstead would have begun to pound its inexorable way.
He felt, listening to the chiming of the quarters, as if he were
standing in the engine-room of an ocean liner, watching the mighty
shafts, now silent and motionless, that would so soon begin their solemn
crashing movement.
But that evening, about eleven o'clock, all his fears and shynesses were
over, and he felt the most deeply contented man in the world. A fire was
flickering a cheerful glow over the tiny drawing-room; Helen had
complained of chilliness so he had told Burton to light it. He was glad
now that this had been done, for it enabled him to grapple with his
dreams more comfortably. Helen sat in an armchair opposite to him on the
other side of the fire; she was leaning forward with her head on her
hands, so that the firelight shone wonderfully on her hair. He looked at
her from time to time, magnificently in love with her, and always amazed
that she belonged to him.
The long day of ordeals had passed by. He had dined that evening in the
Masters' Common-Room, and everybody there had pressed round him in a
chorus of eager congratulation. Afterwards he had toured his House,
introducing himself to those of the prefects whom he had not already
met, and strolling round the dormitories to shake hands informally with
the rank and file. Then he had interviewed new boys (there were nineteen
of them), and had distributed a few words of pastoral advice, concluding
with the strict injunction that if they made tea in the basements they
were on no account to throw the slops down the waste-pipes of the baths.
Lastly of all, he had put his head inside each of the dormitories, at
about half-past ten, to bestow a brisk but genial good-night.
So now, at eleven o'clock, rooted at last in everything that he most
loved in the world, he could pause to gloat over his happiness. Here, in
the snug firelit room, secret and rich with warm shadows; and there,
down the short corridor into the bleak emptiness of the classrooms, was
everything that his heart desired: Helen and Millstead: the two deities
that held passionate sway over him.--Eleven began to chime on the school
clock. The dormitories above were almost silent. She did not speak, did
not look up once from the redness of the fire; she was often like that,
silent with thoughts whose nature he could guess from the dark, tossing
passion that shook her sometimes when, in the midst of such silences,
she suddenly clung to him. She loved him more than ever he could have
imagined: that, more perhaps than anything else, had been the surprise
of that month in Cornwall.
"Eleven," he said, breaking the rapt silence.
She said, half humorously, half sadly: "Are you pleased with me?--Are
you satisfied?--Do I quite come up to expectations?"
He started, looked towards her, and laughed. The laugh disturbed the
silence of the room like the intrusion of something from millions of
miles away. He made a humorous pretence of puzzling it out, as if it
were a baffling problem, and said, finally, with mocking doubtfulness:
"Well, on the whole, I think you do."
"If I had been on trial for a month you'd still keep me, then?" she went
on, without moving her head out of her hands.
He answered, in the same vein as before: "If you could guarantee always
to remain up to sample, I daresay I would."
She raised her head and gave him such a look as, if he had not learned
to know it, would have made him think she was angry with him; it was
sharp with blade-like eagerness, as if she were piercing through his
attitude of jocularity.
Then, wondering why she did not smile when he was smiling, he put his
arm round her and drew her burning lips to his. "Bedtime," he said,
gaily, "for we've got to be up early in the morning."
Over about them as they clung together the spirit of Millstead, like a
watchful friend, came suddenly close and intimate, and to Speed, opening
his soul to it joyously, it appeared in the likeness of a golden-haired
child, shy yet sombrely passionate--a wraith of a child that was just
like Helen. Above all, they loved each other, these two, with a love
that surrounded and enveloped all things in a magic haze: they were the
perfect lovers. And over them the real corporeal Millstead brooded in
constant magnificent calm.
II
Soon he was swallowed up in the joyous routine of term-time. He had
never imagined that a housemaster had such a large amount of work to do.
There were no early-morning forms during the winter term, however, and
as also it was a housemaster's privilege to breakfast in his own rooms,
Speed began the day with a happy three-quarters of an hour of
newspaper-scanning, envelope-tearing, and chatting with Helen. After
breakfast work began in earnest. Before term had lasted a week he
discovered that he had at least twice as many duties as in the preceding
term; the Head was certainly not intending to let him slack. There was
the drawing and music of the whole school to superintend, as well as the
choir and chapel-services which, as the once-famous Raggs became more
and more decrepit, fell into Speed's direction almost automatically.
Then also there were a large number of miscellaneous supervisory duties
which the housemasters shared between them, and one or two, at least,
which tradition decreed should be performed entirely by the junior
housemaster. The result of it all was that Speed was, if he had been in
the mood to desire a statutory eight hours' day, considerably
overworked.
It was fortunate that the work was what he loved. He plunged into it
with terrific zest. Lavery's was a large House, and Lavery himself had
judged all its institutions by the test of whether or not they conduced
to an economy in work for him. The result was an institution that
managed itself with rough-and-ready efficiency, that offered no glaring
scandal to the instrusive eye, yet was, in truth, honeycombed with
corruption of a mild sort, and completely under the sway of powerfully
vested interests. Against this and these Speed set himself out to do
final battle. A prudent housemaster, and certainly one who valued his
own personal comfort, would have postponed the contest, at any rate,
until he had become settled in his position. But Speed, emboldened by
the extraordinary success of his first term, and lured by his own dreams
of a Lavery's that should be the great House at Millstead, would not
delay. In his first week he found five of the prefects enjoying a
pleasant little smoking-party in the Senior prefect's study. They
explained to him that Lavery had never objected to their smoking,
provided they did it unostentatiously, and that Lavery never dreamed of
"barging in upon them" during their evening study-hours. Speed, stung by
their slightly insolent bearing, barked at them in his characteristic
staccato voice when annoyed: "It doesn't matter to me a bit what Lavery
used to let you do. You've got to obey me now, not Lavery. Prefects must
set the example to the others. I shall ask for an undertaking from all
of you that you don't smoke again during term-time. I'll give you till
to-morrow night to decide. Those who refuse will be degraded from
prefecture."
"You can't degrade without the Head's authority," said Smallwood, the
most insolent of the party.
Speed replied, colouring suddenly (for he realised that Smallwood had
spoken the truth): "I know my own business, thank you, Smallwood."
During the following twenty-four hours four out of the half-dozen
House-prefects gave the required undertaking. The other two, Smallwood
and a fellow named Biffin, refused, "on principle," as they said,
without explaining what exactly the qualification meant. Speed went
promptly to the Head and appealed for authority to degrade them. He
found that they had already poured their tale into the Head's receptive
ears, and that they had given the Head the impression that he (Speed) in
a tactless excess of reforming zeal, had been listening at keyholes and
prying around the study-doors at night. The Head, after listening to
Speed's indignant protest, replied, suavely: "I think, Mr.
Speed"--(Speed's relationship as son-in-law never tempted either of them
to any intimacy of address)--"I think you must--um, yes--make some
allowance for the--um--the natural inclination of elder boys to--um--to
be jealous of privileges. Smoking is, of course, an--um, yes--an offence
against school rules, but Mr. Lavery was perhaps--um, yes, perhaps--wise
in turning the--um--the blind eye, when the offender was near the top of
the school and where the offence was not flagrant. You must remember,
Mr. Speed, that Smallwood is eighteen years of age, not so very many
years younger than you are yourself. Besides, he is--um, yes, I think
so--captain of the First Fifteen, is he not?--and I--um--I assure
you--his degradation through you would do you an--um--an incalculable
amount of harm in the school. Don't make yourself unpopular, Mr. Speed.
I will send a note round the school, prefects--um, yes--included,
drawing--um--attention to the school rule against smoking. And I will
talk to Smallwood and the other boy--Biffin, isn't he?--um,
yes--privately. Privately, you see--a quiet friendly conversation
in--um--in private, can achieve wonders."
Speed felt that he was being ever so gently snubbed. He left the Head's
study in a state of subdued fury, and his temper was not improved when
Helen seemed rather thoughtlessly inclined to take Smallwood's side.
"Don't get people into trouble, Kenneth," she pleaded. "I don't think
you ought to complain to father about them. After all, it isn't
frightfully wicked to smoke, is it? and I know they all used to do it in
Lavery's time. Why, I've seen them many a time when I've passed the
study-windows in the evenings."
He stared at her for a few seconds, half indignantly, half
incredulously: then, as if on sudden impulse, he smiled and placed his
hands on her shoulders and looked searchingly into her eyes.
"Soft-hearted little kid!" he exclaimed, laughing a slightly forced
laugh. "All the same, I don't think you quite understand my position,
dear."
"Tell me about it then," she said.
Perhaps instinct forewarned him that if he went into details, either his
indignation would break its bounds or else she would make some further
casual and infuriating comment. From both possibilities he shrank
nervously. He said, with an affectation of nonchalance: "Oh, never mind
about it, dear. It will all come right in the end. Don't you worry your
pretty head about it. Kiss me!"
She kissed him passionately.
III
But Speed was still, in the main, happy, despite occasional worries.
There was a wonderful half-sad charm about those fading autumn
afternoons, each one more eager to dissolve into the twilight, each one
more thickly spread with the brown and yellow leaves. To Speed, who
remembered so well the summer term, the winter term seemed full of
poignancies and regrets. And yet surrounding it all, this strange
atmosphere which for want of a better designation must be called simply
Millstead, was no less apparent; it pervaded all those autumn days with
a subtle essence which made Speed feel that this life that he was living
would be impossible to forget, no matter what the world held in store
for him. He could never forget the clammy, earthy smell of the rugger
pitch after a match in rain; the steam rising from the heavy scrum; the
grey clouds rolling over the sky; the patter of rain-drops on the
corrugated-iron roof of the pavilion stand. Nor could anything efface
the memory of those grey twilights when the afternoon games were
finished; the crowded lamp-lit tuck-shop, a phantasy of chromatic
blazers and pots of jam and muddy knees; the basements, cloudy with
steam from the bathrooms; the bleak shivering corridors along which the
Juniors scampered and envied the cosy warmth of the studies which might
one day be their own. Even the lock-ups after dark held some strange and
secret comfort: Burton and his huge keys and his noisy banging of the
door were part of the curious witchery of it all.
And then at night-time when the sky was black as jet and the wind from
the fenlands howled round the tall chimney-stacks of Lavery's, Speed
could feel more than ever the bigness of this thing of which he had
become a part. The very days and nights took on characters and
individualities of their own; Speed could, if he had thought, have given
them all an identifying sound and colour: Monday, for instance, was
brown, deepening to crimson as night fell: he was always reminded of it
by the chord of E flat on the piano. That, of course, was perhaps no
more than half-imagined idiosyncrasy. But it was certain that the days
and nights were all shaped and conditioned by Millstead; and that they
were totally different from the days and nights that were elsewhere in
the world. On Sunday nights, for instance, Speed, observing a Lavery's
custom to which he saw no objection, read for an hour to the Junior
dormitory. The book was Bram Stoker's "Dracula." Speed had never heard
of the book until the Juniors informed him that Mr. Lavery had got
half-way through it during the previous term. After about three
successive readings Speed decided that the book was too horrible to be
read to Juniors just before bedtime, and accordingly refused to go on
with it. "I shall put it in the House library," he said, "so if any of
you wish to finish it you can do so in the daytime. And now we'll try
something else. Can anybody suggest anything?" Somebody mentioned
Stephen Leacock, and in future, Sunday evenings in the Junior dormitory
at Lavery's were punctuated by roars of laughter. All the same, the
sudden curtailment of _Dracula_ was, for a long while, a sore point with
the Juniors.
On the two half-holidays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, Speed had three or
four of his House in to tea, taking them in rotation. This was a custom
which Lavery, seeing in it no more than an unnecessary increase in his
duties and obligations, had allowed to fall into disuse. Nor were the
majority of the boys keen on Speed's resumption of what had been, more
often than not, an irksome social infliction. They were, however,
gratified by the evident interest that he took in them, and most of
them, when they thankfully escaped from the ordeal back to their fellows
in the Common-Room, admitted that he was "quite a decent sort of chap."
Speed believed in the personal relationship between each boy and his
housemaster with an almost fanatical zeal. He found out what each boy
was interested in, and, without prying into anybody's private affairs,
contrived to establish himself as a personal factor in the life of the
House and not as a vague and slatternly deity such as Lavery had been.
Four o'clock therefore, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, saw Speed's tiny
drawing-room littered with cakes and toasted scones, and populated by
three or four nervous youngsters trying desperately to respond to
Speed's geniality and to balance cups and saucers and plates on their
knees without upsetting anything.
It was part of Speed's dream of the ideal housemaster and his ideal
House that the housemaster's wife should fulfil a certain difficult and
scrupulously exact function in the scheme of things. She must not, of
course, attempt any motherly intimacies, or call people by their
Christian names, or do anything else that was silly or effusive; yet, on
the other hand, there was a sense in which her relationship with the
boys, especially the Juniors, might be less formal than her husband's.
And, somehow, Speed was forced to admit that Helen did not achieve this
extraordinarily delicate equipoise. She was, he came to the conclusion,
too young for it to be possible. When she grew older, no doubt she
would, in that particular respect, improve, but for the present she was,
perhaps naturally, nervous in the presence of the elder boys and apt to
treat the Juniors as if they were babies. Gradually she formed the habit
of going over to the Head's house for tea whenever Speed entertained the
boys in his room; it was an arrangement which, accomplished silently and
without definition. Speed felt to be rather a wise one.
IV
Clare Harrington had left Millstead. One breakfast time a letter came
from her with the Paris postmark. Out of the envelope tumbled a number
of small snapshots; Speed scanned the letter through and remarked,
summing up its contents roughly for Helen's benefit: "Oh, Clare's in
France. Been having rather a good time, I should imagine--touring about,
you know."
Helen looked up suddenly.
"I didn't know she wrote to _you_," she said.
Speed answered, casually: "She doesn't, as a rule. But she knows I'm
interested in architecture--I expect that's why she sent me all these
snaps. There's one here of ..." he picked them up and glanced through
them ... "of Chartres Cathedral ... the belfry at Bruges ... some street
in Rouen.... They're rather good--have a look at them!"
She examined them at first suspiciously, then with critical intensity.
And finally she handed them back to him without remark.
CHAPTER TWO
I
One dark dusk in November that was full of wind and fine rain Speed
stood up at his drawing-room window to pull down the blind. But before
doing so he gazed out at the dreary twilight and saw the bare trees
black and terrible beyond the quadrangle and the winking lights of
Milner's across the way. He had seen all of it so many times before, had
lived amongst it, so it now seemed to him, for ages; yet to-night there
was something in it that he had never seen before: a sort of sadness
that was abroad in the world. He heard the wind screaming through the
sodden trees and the branches creaking, the rain drops splashing on the
ivy underneath the window: it seemed to him that Millstead was full that
night of beautiful sorrow, and that it came over the dark quadrangle to
him with open arms, drenching all Lavery's in wild and forlorn pathos.
He let the blind fall gently in front of his rapt eyes while the yellow
lamplight took on a richer, serener tinge. Those few weeks of occupation
had made the room quite different; its walls were now crowded with
prints and etchings; there was a sideboard, dull-glowing and huge for
the size of the room, on which silver and pewter and cut glass glinted
in tranquillity. Across one corner a baby-grand piano sprawled its sleek
body like a drowsily basking sea-lion, and opposite, in the wall at
right angles to the window, a large fire lulled itself into red
contentment with flames that had hardly breath for an instant's flicker.
But Speed left the window and stirred the coals into yellow riot that
lit his face with tingling, delicious half-tones. In the firelight he
seemed very tall and young-looking, with dark-brown, straggling hair,
brown, eager eyes that were almost black, and a queer, sad-lipped mouth
that looked for the present as if it would laugh and cry in the same
way. A leather-seated stool stood by the fireside, and he dragged it in
front of the open flames and sat with his chin resting solemnly on his
slim, long-fingered hands.
It was a Wednesday and Helen had gone with her mother to visit some
friends in the town and would not be back until, perhaps, dinner-time.
It was almost four o'clock, and that hour, or at any rate, a few seconds
or minutes afterwards, three youngsters would be coming to tea. Their
names were Felling, Fyfield, and Graham. All were Juniors, as it
happened, and they would be frightfully nervous, and assuredly would not
know when to depart.
Speed, liking them well enough, but feeling morbid for some reason or
other, pictured them plastering their hair down and scrambling into
their Sunday jackets in readiness for the ordeal. Poor little kids! he
thought, and he almost longed to rush into the cold dormitories where
they were preparing themselves and say: "Look here, Felling, Fyfield and
Graham--you needn't come to tea with me this afternoon--you're excused!"
The hour of four boomed into the wind and rain outside. Speed looked
round to see if Burton had set the correct number of cups, saucers and
plates, and had obtained a sufficient quantity of cake and fancy pastry
from the tuck-shop. After all, he ought to offer them some compensation
for having to come to tea with him.
Tap at the door. "Come in.... Ah, that you, Felling ... and you,
Graham.... I expect Fyfield will be here in a minute.... Sit down, will
you? ... Take that easy-chair, Felling.... Isn't it depressing
weather? ... I suppose you saw the game against Oversham? That last try of
Marshall's was a particularly fine one, I thought.... Come in.... Ah,
here you are, Fyfield: now we can get busy with the tea, can't we? ...
How's the Junior Debating Society going, Fyfield?" (Fyfield was
secretary of it.) "I must come round to one of your meetings, if you'll
promise to do exactly as you would if I weren't there.... Come in....
You might bring me some more hot water, Burton.... By the way, Graham,
congratulations on last Saturday's match: I didn't see it, but I'm told
you did rather well."
And so on. They were nice boys, all three of them, but they were
nervous. They answered in monosyllables or else embarked upon tortuous
sentences which became finally embedded in meringues and chocolate
_éclairs_. Felling, in particular, was overawed, for he was a new boy
that term and had only just emerged from six weeks in the sanatorium
with whooping-cough. Virtually, this was his first week at school.
In the midst of the ponderously jocular, artificially sustained
conversation a knock came on the door. Speed shouted out "Come in," as
usual. The door opened and somebody came in. Speed could not see who it
was. He thought it must be a boy and turned back the red lampshade so
that the rays, nakedly yellow, glanced upwards. Then he saw.
Clare!
II
She was dressed in a long flowing mackintosh which had something in it
reminiscent still of the swirl of wind and rain. She came forward very
simply, held out her hand to Speed, and said: "How are you, Mr. Speed? I
thought perhaps I should find Helen in."
He said, overmastering his astonishment: "Helen's out somewhere with
Mrs. Ervine.... I'm quite well. How--how are you?"
"Quite as well as you are," she said, laughing. "Tell Helen I'll call
round some other time, then, will you?--I mustn't interrupt your
tea-party."
That made him say: "Indeed you're not doing that at all. Won't you stay
and have a cup of tea? Surely you won't go back into the rain so soon!
Let me introduce you--this is Felling ... Miss Harrington ... and this
is Fyfield ... and Graham...."
What on earth had made him do that? He wondered, as he saw the boys
shaking hands with her so stiffly and nervously; what was possessing
him? Yet, accepting his invitation calmly and decisively, she sat down
in the midst of them as soon as she had taken off her wet mackintosh,
and appeared perfectly comfortable and at home. Speed busied himself in
obtaining a cup of tea for her, and by the time he had at last succeeded
he heard her talking in the most amazing way to Graham, and, which was
more, Graham was answering her as if they had known each other for
weeks. She had somehow found out that Graham's home was in Perth, and
they were indulging in an eager, if rather vacuous, exchange of
"Do--you--know's." Then quite suddenly she was managing to include
Fyfield in the conversation, and in a little while after that Felling
demonstrated both his present cordiality and his former
absent-mindedness by calling her "Mrs. Speed." She said, with perfect
calmness and without so much as the faintest suggestion in her voice of
any but the mere literal meaning of her words: "I'm not Mrs. Speed; I'm
Miss Harrington."
Speed had hardly anything to do with the talk at all. He kept supplying
the participators with fuel in the way of cakes and _éclairs_, but he
was content to leave the rest of the management in Clare's hands. She
paid little attention to him, reserving most of her conversation for the
three boys. The chatter developed into a gossip that was easy, yet
perfectly respectful; Speed, putting in his word or two occasionally,
was astonished at the miracle that was being performed under his eyes.
Who could have believed that Felling, Fyfield and Graham could ever be
induced to talk like that in their housemaster's drawing-room? Of
course, a man couldn't do it at all, he thought, in self-defence: it was
a woman's miracle entirely.
The school-clock began the chime of five, and five was the hour when it
was generally considered that housemasterly teas were due to finish.
Speed waited till ten minutes past and then interjected during a pause
In the conversation: "Well, I'm sorry you can't stay any longer...."
The three boys rose, thankful for the hint although the affair had
turned out to be not quite such an ordeal as they had expected. After
hand-shaking with Clare they backed awkwardly out of the room followed
by Speed's brisk "Good-night."
When they had gone Clare cried, laughing: "Oh, fancy getting rid of them
like that, Mr. Speed!--I should be insulted if you tried it on with me."
Speed said: "It's the best way with boys, Miss Harrington. They don't
like to say they must go themselves, and they'd feel hurt if you told
them to go outright. Really they're immensely grateful for a plain
hint."
Now that he was alone in the room with her he began to feel nervous in a
very peculiar and exciting way; as if something unimaginably strange
were surely going to happen. Outside, the wind and rain seemed suddenly
to grow loud, louder, terrifically loud; a strong whiff of air came down
the chimney and blew smoke into the room. All around, everywhere, there
were noises, clumping of feet on the floor above, chatter and shouting
in the corridors, the distant jangle of pianos in the practice-rooms;
and yet, in a deep significant sense, it was as if he and Clare were
quite alone amidst the wind and rain. He poked the fire with a gesture
that was almost irritable; the flames prodded into the red-tinted gloom
and revealed Clare perfectly serene and imperturbable. Evidently nothing
was going to happen at all. He looked at her with keen quickness,
thinking amazedly: And, by the way, what _could_ have happened?
"How is Helen?" she asked.
He answered: "Oh, she's quite well. Very well, in fact."
"And I suppose you are, also."
"I look it, don't I?"
She said, after a pause: "And quite happy, of course."
He started, kicked the fender with a clatter that, for the moment,
frightened him, and exclaimed: "Happy! Did you mean am _I_ happy?"
"Yes."
He did not answer immediately. He gave the question careful and
scrupulous weighing-up. He thought deliberately and calculatingly of
Helen, pictured her in his mind, saw her sitting opposite to him in the
chair where Felling had sat, saw her and her hair lit with the glow of
the fire, her blue eyes sparkling; then, for a while, he listened to
her, heard her rich, sombre whisper piercing the gloom; lastly, as if
sight and hearing were not evidence enough, he brought her close to him,
so that his hands could touch her. He said then, with deep certainty:
"Yes, I'm happy."
"That's fine," she replied. "Now tell me how you're getting on with
Lavery's?"
He chatted to her for a while about the House, communicating to her
something of his enthusiasm but not touching upon any of his
difficulties. Then he asked her what she had been doing in France. She
replied: "Combining business with pleasure."
"How?"
"Well, you see, first of all I bought back from my father's publishers
all transcription rights. (They'd never used them themselves). Then,
with the help of a French friend, I translated one or two of the
Helping-Hand-Books into French and placed them with a Paris agent.
Business you see. He disposed of them fairly, advantageously, and on
part of the proceeds I treated myself to a holiday. I had an excellent
time. Now I've come back to Millstead to translate a few more of my
father's books."
"But you're continuing to run the shop, I suppose?"
"I've brought over my French friend to do that for me. She's a clever
girl with plenty of brains and no money. She speaks English perfectly.
In the daytime she'll do most of the shop-work for me and she'll always
be handy to help me with translations. You must meet her--you'll find
her most outrageously un-English."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that she's not sentimental."
By the time that he had digested that a tap came at the door.
"That's Helen!" said Speed, joyously, recognising the quiet double rap.
He felt delightfully eager to see the meeting of the two friends. Helen
entered. Clare rose. Speed cried, like an excited youngster: "Helen,
we've got a visitor. Who do you think it is?"
Helen replied, puzzled: "I don't know. Tell me."
"Clare!" he cried, with boisterous enthusiasm. "It's Clare!"
Then he remembered that he had never called her Clare before; always it
had been Miss Harrington. And yet the name had come so easily and
effortlessly to his tongue!
Helen gasped: "Clare! Is it you, Clare?"
And Clare advanced through the shadows and kissed Helen very simply and
quietly. Again Speed felt that strange, presaging emotion of something
about to happen, of some train being laid for the future. The rain was
now a torrent, and the wind a great gale shrieking across the fenlands.
Helen said: "I'm drenched with rain--let me take my coat off." After a
short pause she added: "Why didn't you let me know you were coming,
Clare? If you had I could have stayed in for you."
III
Speed was always inclined to drop out of conversations that were
proceeding well enough without him. In a few moments Helen and Clare
were chatting together exactly as if he had not been present. He did not
mind; he was rather glad, in fact, because it relieved him from the task
of mastering his nervousness. He felt too, what he always felt when
Helen was talking to another woman; a feeling that women as a sex were
hostile to men, and that when they were together there was a sort of
secret freemasonry between them which enforced a rigid and almost
contemptuous attitude towards the other sex. Nothing in Clare's manner
encouraged this belief, but Helen's side of the conversation was a
distinct suggestion of it. Not that anything said or discussed was
inimical to him; merely that whenever the conversation came near to a
point at which he might naturally have begun to take part in it, Helen
seemed somehow to get hold of it by the neck and pull it out of his
reach. And Clare was quite impassive, allowing Helen to do just what she
liked. These were Speed's perhaps exaggerated impressions as he sat very
uncomfortably in the armchair, almost frightened to move lest movement
on his part might be wrongly interpreted as irritation, fear, or
boredom. When he felt uncomfortable his discomfort was always added to
by a usually groundless fear that other people were noticing it and
speculating as to its reason.
At six the bell rang for school tea in the dining-hall, and this was his
week to superintend that function. Most mercifully then he was permitted
to leave the red-glowing drawing-room and scamper across the rain-swept
quadrangle. "Sorry I must leave you," he said, hastily, rising from his
chair. Helen said, as if her confirmation were essential before his
words could be believed: "It's his week for reading grace, you know."
"And after that I've got some youngsters with piano-lessons," he said,
snatching up his gown and, in his nervousness, putting it on wrong side
out. "So I'll say good-bye, Miss Harrington."
He shook hands with her and escaped into the cold rain. It was over a
hundred yards to the dining-hall, and with the rain slanting down in
torrential gusts he was almost drenched during the few seconds' run.
Somehow, the bare, bleak dining-hall, draughty and fireless and lit with
flaring gas-jets, seemed to him exhilaratingly cheerful as he gazed down
upon it from the Master's rostrum at the end. He leaned his arms over
the edge of the lectern, watching the boys as they streamed in noisily,
with muddy boots and turned-up collars and wet ruddy cheeks. The long
tables, loaded with smeared jam-pots and towers of bread-slices and tins
of fruit jaggedly opened, seemed, in their teeming, careless ugliness,
immensely real and joyous: there was a simplicity too, an almost
mathematical simplicity, in the photographs of all the rugger fifteens
and cricket and hockey elevens that adorned the green-distempered walls.
The photographs were complete for the last thirty-eight years; therefore
there would be four hundred and eighteen plus four hundred and eighteen
plus five hundred and seventy separate faces upon the walls. Total: one
thousand four hundred and six.... Speed never thought of it except when
he stood on the rostrum waiting to read grace, and as he was not good at
mental arithmetic he always had a misgiving that he had calculated
wrongly, and so would go over it again multiplying with his brain while
his eyes were on the clock. And this evening his mind, once enslaved by
the numerical fascination of the photographs, obtained no release until
a stamping of feet at the far end of the hall awakened him to the
realisation that it was time he said grace. He had been dreaming. Silly
of him to stand there on the rostrum openly and obviously dreaming
before the eyes of all Millstead! He blushed slightly, smiled more
slightly still, and gave the knob of the hand-bell a vigorous punch.
Clatter of forms and shuffling of feet as all Millstead rose.... "For
these and all His mercies the Lord's name we praise...." About the
utterance of the word "mercies," conversation, prohibited before grace,
began to murmur from one end of the room to the other; the final
"praise," hardly audible even to Speed himself, was engulfed in a mighty
swelling of hundreds of unleashed voices, clumping of feet, clattering
of forms, banging of plates, shrill appeals for one thing and another,
and general pandemonium amidst which, Speed, picking his way amongst the
groups of servants, made his escape.
How strange was Millstead to-night, he thought, as he made his way along
the covered cloisters to the music-rooms. The rain had slackened
somewhat, but the wind was still high and shrieking; the floor of the
cloisters, wet from hundreds of muddy boots, shone greasily in the rays
of the wind-blown lamps. Over the darkness of the quadrangle he could
see Lavery's rising like a tall cliff at the other side of an ocean; and
the dull red square that was the window of his own drawing-room. Had
Clare gone?--Clare! It was unfortunate, perhaps, that he had called her
Clare in his excitement; unfortunate because she might think he had done
it deliberately with a view to deepening the nature of their friendship.
That was his only reason for thinking it unfortunate.
Down in the dark vaults beneath the Big Hall, wherein the piano-rooms
were situated, he found Porritt Secundus waiting for him. Porritt was in
Lavery's, and therefore Speed was more than ordinarily interested in
him.
"Do you have to miss your tea in order to have a lesson at this hour?"
Speed asked, putting his hand in a friendly way on Porritt's shoulder,
as he guided him through the gloomy corridor into the single room where
a small light was showing.
Porritt replied: "I didn't to-day, sir. Smallwood asked me to tea with
him."
Speed's hand dropped from Porritt's shoulder as if it had been shot
away. His imagination, fanned into sudden perceptivity, detected in the
boy's voice a touch of--of what? Impertinence? Hardly, and yet surely a
boy could be impertinent without saying anything that was in itself
impertinent.... Porritt had been to tea with Smallwood. And Smallwood
was Speed's inveterate enemy, as the latter well knew. Was it possible
that Smallwood was adopting a methodical policy of setting the Juniors
against him? Possibilities invaded Speed's mind in a scorching torrent.
Moments afterwards, when he had regained composure, it occurred to him
that it was the habit of prefects to invite their Juniors to tea
occasionally, and that it was perfectly natural that Porritt, so
recently the guest of the Olympian Smallwood, should be eager to tell
people about it.
IV
That night, sitting by the fire before bedtime, Helen said: "Was Clare
here a long time before I came in?"
Speed answered: "Not very long. She came while I was having three
Juniors to tea, and they stayed until after five.... After they'd gone
she told me about her holiday in France."
"She's been bargaining over her father's books in Paris, so she says."
"Well, not exactly that. You see, Mr. Harrington's publishers never
arranged for his books to be translated, so she bought the rights off
them so as to be able to arrange it herself."
"I think it's rather mean to go haggling about that sort of thing after
the man's dead, don't you? After all, if he'd wanted them to be
translated, surely he'd have done it himself while he was alive--don't
you think so? Clare seems to be out to make as much money as she can
without any thought about what would have been her father's wishes."
"I confess," replied Speed, slowly, "that it never struck me in that
light. Harrington had about as much business in him as a two-year-old,
and if he let himself be swindled right and left, surely that's no
reason why his daughter should continue in the same way. Besides, she
hasn't much money and it couldn't have been her father's wish that she
should neglect chances of getting some."
"She has the shop."
"It can't be very profitable."
"I daresay it won't allow her to take holidays abroad, but that's not to
say it won't give her a decent living."
"Of course," said Speed, mildly, "I really don't know anything about her
private affairs. You may be right in everything you say.... It's nearly
eleven. Shall we go to bed?"
"Soon," she said, broodingly, gazing into the fire. She was silent for a
moment and then said, slowly and deliberately: "Kenneth."
"Yes, Helen?"
"Do you know--I--I--I don't think I--I quite like Clare--as much as I
used to."
"You don't, Helen? Why not?"
"I don't know why not. But it's true.... She--she makes me feel
frightened--somehow. I hope she doesn't come here often. I--I don't
think I shall ask her to. Do you--do you mind?"
"Mind, Helen? Why should I mind? If she frightens you she certainly
shan't come again." He added, with a fierceness which, somehow, did not
strike him as absurd: "I won't let her. Helen--_dear_ Helen, you're
unhappy about something--tell me all about it!"
She cried vehemently: "Nothing--nothing--nothing!--Kenneth, I want to
learn things--will you teach me?--I'm a ridiculously ignorant person,
Kenneth, and some day I shall make you feel ashamed of me if I don't
learn a few things more. _Will_ you teach me?"
"My darling. I'll teach you everything in the world. What shall we begin
with?"
"Geography. I was looking through some of the exercise-books you had to
mark. Do you know, I don't know anything about exports and imports?"
"Neither did I until I had them to teach."
"And you'll teach me?"
"Yes. I'll teach you anything you want to learn. But I don't think we'll
have our first lesson until to-morrow. Bedtime now, Helen."
She flung her arms round his neck passionately, offered her lips to
his almost with abandonment, and cried, in the low, thrilling
voice that seemed so full of unspoken dreads and secrecies: "Oh,
Kenneth--Kenneth--you _do_ love me, don't you? You aren't tired of me?
You aren't even a little bit dissatisfied, are you?"
He took her in his arms and kissed her more passionately than he had
ever done before. It seemed to him then that he did love her, more
deeply than anybody had loved anybody else since the world began, and
that, so far from his being the least bit dissatisfied with her, she was
still guiding him into fresh avenues of unexplored delight. She was the
loveliest and most delicate thing in the world.
V
The great event of the winter term was the concert in aid of the local
hospitals. It had taken place so many years in succession that it had
become institutional and thoroughly enmeshed in Millstead tradition. It
was held during the last week of the term in the Big Hall; the boys paid
half-a-crown each for admission (the sum was included in their terminal
bills), and outsiders, for whom there was a limited amount of
accommodation, five shillings. The sum was artfully designed to exclude
shop assistants and such-like from a function which was intended to be,
in the strictest sense, exclusive. Millstead, on this solemn annual
occasion, arrayed itself for its own pleasure and satisfaction; took a
look at itself, so to say, in order to reassure itself that another year
of social perturbation had mercifully left it entire. And by Millstead
is meant, in the first instance, the School. The Masters, for once,
discarded their gowns and mortar-boards and appeared in resplendent
evening-suits which, in some cases, were not used at all during the rest
of the year. Masters, retired and of immense age, rumbled up to the main
gateway in funereal four-wheelers and tottered to their seats beneath
the curious eyes of an age that knew them not. The wives of non-resident
Masters, like deep-sea fishes that rarely come to the surface, blinked
their pleased astonishment at finding everything, apparently, different
from what they had been led to expect. And certain half-mythical
inhabitants of the neighbourhood, doctors and colonels and captains and
landed gentry, parked themselves in the few front rows like curious
social specimens on exhibition. In every way the winter term concert at
Millstead was a great affair, rivalling in splendour even the
concentrated festivities of Speech Day.
Speed, in virtue of his position as music-master, found himself involved
in the scurry and turmoil of preparation. This concert, he decided, with
his customary enthusiasm, should be the best one that Millstead had had
for many a year. He would have introduced into it all sorts of
innovations had he not found, very soon after he began to try, that
mysteriously rigid traditions stood in the way. He was compelled, for
instance, to open with the Millstead School Song. Now the Millstead
School Song had been likened by a witty though irreverent Master to the
funeral-march of a smoked haddock. It began with a ferocious yell of
"_Haec olim revocare_" and continued through yards of uneuphonious Latin
into a remorseless _clump-clump_ of a chorus. Speed believed that, even
supposing the words were sacrosanct, that ought to be no reason for the
tune to be so, and suggested to the Head that some reputable modern
composer should be commissioned to write one. The Head, of course, would
not agree. "The tune, Mr. Speed, has--um, yes--associations. As a
newcomer you cannot be expected to feel them, but, believe me, they
do--um, yes--they do most certainly exist. An old foundation, Mr. Speed,
and if you take away from us our--um--traditions, then you--um--take
away that which not enriches you and makes us, urn, yes--poor indeed."
And, with a glint of satisfaction at having made use of a quotation
rather aptly, the Head indicated that Speed must not depart from the
recognised routine.
Even without innovations, however, the concert demanded a great deal of
practising and rehearsal, and in this Speed had the rather hazy
co-operation of Raggs, the visiting organist. He it was who told Speed
exactly what items must, on no account, be omitted; and who further
informed him of items which must on no account be included; these latter
consisted chiefly of things which Speed suggested himself. It was
finally arranged, however, and the programme submitted to and passed by
the Head: there was to be a pianoforte solo, a trio for piano, violin
and 'cello, a good, resounding song by the choir, a quartet singing
Christmas carols, and one or two "suitable" songs from operas. The
performers, where possible, were to be boys of the school, but there
were precedents for drawing on the services of outsiders when necessary.
Thus when it was found that the school orchestra lacked first violins,
Raggs gave Speed the names of several ladies and gentlemen in the town
who had on former occasions lent their services in this capacity. And
among these names was that of Miss Clare Harrington.
Speed, making his preparations about the middle of November, was in a
dilemma with this list of names. He knew that, for some reason or other,
Helen did not care for Clare's company, and that if Clare were to take
part, not only in the concert itself, but in all the preceding
rehearsals, she would be brought almost inevitably into frequent contact
with Helen. He thought also that if he canvassed all the other people
first, Clare might, if she came to hear of it, think that he had treated
her spitefully. In the end he solved the difficulty by throwing the
burden of selection on to Raggs and undertaking in exchange some vastly
more onerous task that Raggs was anxious to get rid of. A few days later
Raggs accosted Speed in the cloisters and said: "I've got you a few
first violins. Here's their names and addresses on this card. They'll
turn up to the next rehearsal if you'll send them word."
When Raggs had shambled away. Speed looted curiously at the card which
he had pushed into his hand. Scanning down the list, scribbled in Raggs'
most illegible pencilled script, he found himself suddenly conscious of
pleasure, slight yet strangely distinct; something that made him go on
his way whistling a tune. Clare's name was on the list.
VI
Those crowded winter nights of rehearsals for the concert were full of
incident for Speed. As soon as the school had finished preparation in
the Big Hall, the piano was uncovered and pushed into the middle of the
platform; the violinists and 'cellists began to tune up; the choir
assembled with much noise and a disposition to regard rehearsals as a
boisterous form of entertainment; lastly, the visitors from the town
appeared, adapting themselves condescendingly to the rollicking
atmosphere.
Speed discovered Clare to be a rather good violinist. She played quietly
and accurately, with an absence (rare in good violinists) of superfluous
emotion. Once she said to Speed, referring to one of the other imported
violinists: "Listen! This Mozart's only a decorative frieze, and that
man's playing it as if it were the whole gateway to the temple of Eros."
Speed, who liked architectural similes himself, nodded appreciatively.
Clare went on: "I always want to laugh at emotion in the wrong place.
Violinists who are too fond of the mute, for instance." Speed said,
laughing: "Yes, and organists who are too fond of the _vox humana_." To
which Clare added: "And don't forget to mention the audiences that are
too fond of both. It's their fault principally."
At ten o'clock, when rehearsals were over, Speed accompanied Clare home
to the shop in High Street. There was something in those walks which
crept over him like a slow fascination, so that after the first few
occasions he found himself sitting at the piano during the rehearsal
with everything in his mind subordinate to the tingling anticipation of
the stroll afterwards. When they left the Big Hall and descended the
steps into the cool dusk of the cloisters, his spirits rose as with
wine; and when from the cloisters they turned into the crisp-cold night,
crunching softly over the frosted quadrangle and shivering joyously in
the first keen lash of the wind, he could have scampered for sheer
happiness like a schoolboy granted an unexpected holiday. Sometimes the
moon was white on roofs and roadways; sometimes the sky was densely
black; sometimes it was raining and Millstead High Street was no more
than a vista of pavements with the yellow lamplight shining on the pools
in them: once, at least, it was snowing soft, dancing flakes that
covered the ground inches deep as they walked. But whatever the world
was like on those evenings on which Speed accompanied Clare, one thing
was common to them all: an atmosphere of robust companionship,
impervious to all things else. The gales that romped and frolicked over
the fenlands were no more vigorous and coldly sweet than something that
romped and frolicked in Speed's inmost soul.
Once they were discussing the things that they hated most of all. "I
hate myself more than anything else--sometimes," said Speed.
Clare said: "And I hate people who think that a thing's bound to be
sordid because it's real: people who think a thing's beautiful merely
because it's hazy and doesn't mean anything. I'm afraid I hate
Mendelssohn."
Speed said: "Mendelssohn? Why, that was what Helen used to be keen on,
wasn't it?--last term, don't you remember?"
A curious silence supervened.
Clare said, after a pause: "Yes, I believe it was."
VII
Helen's attitude towards Clare at this time was strangely at variance
with her former one. As soon as she learned that Clare was playing in
the concert she wrote to her and told her always to come into Lavery's
before the rehearsal began. "It will be nice seeing you so often,
Clare," she wrote, "and you needn't worry about getting back in the
evenings because Kenneth will always see you home."
Speed said, when he heard of Helen's invitation: "But I thought you
didn't like Clare, Helen?"
"Oh, I was silly," she answered. "I do like her, really. And besides, we
must be hospitable. You'll see her back in the evenings, won't you?"
"I daresay I _can_ do," he said.
Then, suddenly laughing aloud, he caught her into his arms and kissed
her. "I'm so glad it's all right again, Helen. I don't like my little
Helen to throw away her old friends. It isn't like her. You see how
happy we shall all be, now that we're friendly again with Clare."
"I know," she said.
"I believe you are the most lovable and loving little girl in the world
except--" he frowned at her playfully--"when the devil persuades you
that you don't like people. Some day he'll persuade you that you don't
like me."
"He won't," she said.
"I hope he won't."
She seemed to him then more than ever a child, a child whose winsomeness
was alloyed with quaint and baffling caprice. He loved her, too, very
gladly and affectionately; and he knew then, quite clearly because the
phase was past that her announced dislike of Clare had made him love her
not quite so much. But now all was happy and unruffled again, so what
did it matter?
CHAPTER THREE
I
Smallwood was one of a type more commonly found at a university than at
a public school; in fact it was due to his decision not to go to the
former that he had stayed so long at Millstead. He was nineteen years
old, and when he left he would enter his father's office in the City.
The disciplinary problems of dealing with him and others of his type
bristled with awkwardness, especially for a Master so young as Speed;
the difficulty was enhanced by the fact that Smallwood, having stayed at
Millstead long enough to achieve all athletic distinctions merely by
inevitability, was a power in the school of considerable magnitude.
Personally, he was popular; he was in no sense a bully; he was a kindly
and certainly not too strict prefect; his disposition was friendly and
easy-going. But for the unfortunate clash at the beginning of the term
Speed might have found in him a powerful ally instead of a sinister
enemy. One quality Smallwood possessed above all others--vanity; and
Speed, having affronted that vanity, could count on a more virulent
enmity than Smallwood's lackadaisical temperament was ordinarily capable
of.
The error lay, of course, in the system which allowed Smallwood to stay
at Millstead so long. Smallwood at nineteen was distinctly and quite
naturally a man, not a boy; and whatever in him seemed unnatural was
forced on him by the Millstead atmosphere. There was nothing at all
surprising in his study-walls being covered with photographs of women
and amorous prints obtained from French magazines. Nor was it surprising
that he was that very usual combination--the athlete and the dandy, that
his bathroom was a boudoir of pastes and oils and cosmetics, and that,
with his natural good looks, he should have the reputation of being a
lady-killer. Compelled by the restraints of Millstead life to a
resignation of this branch of his activities during term-time, he found
partial solace in winking at the less unattractive of the
school-servants (who, it was reported, were chosen by the matron on the
score of ugliness), and in relating to his friends lurid stories of his
adventures in London during the vacations. He had had, for a
nineteen-year-old, the most amazing experiences, and sometimes the more
innocuous of these percolated, by heaven knows what devious channels, to
the amused ears of the Masters' Common-Room. The Masters as a whole, it
should be noted, liked Smallwood, because, with a little flattery and
smoothing-down, they could always cajole him into agreement with them.
Titivate his vanity and he was Samson shorn of his locks.
Now the masters, for various reasons, did not like Speed so much in his
second term as they had done in his first. Like all bodies of averagely
tolerant men they tended to be kindly to newcomers, and Speed, young,
quiet, modest, and rather attractively nervous, had won more of their
hearts than some of them afterwards cared to remember. The fact that his
father was a titled man and that Speed never talked about it, was bound
to impress a group of men who, by the unalterable circumstances of their
lives, were compelled to spend a large portion of their time in
cultivating an attitude of snobbery. But in his second term Speed found
them not so friendly. That was to be expected in any case, for while
much may be forgiven a man during his first probationary term, his
second is one in which he must prepare to be judged by stricter
standards. Besides the normal hardening of judgment, Speed was affected
by another even more serious circumstance. He had committed the
unpardonable offence of being too successful. Secretly, more than half
the staff were acutely jealous of him. Even those who were entirely
ineligible for the post at Lavery's, and would not have accepted it if
it had been offered them, were yet conscious of some subtle personal
chagrin in seeing Speed, after his first term, step into a place of such
power and dignity. They had the feeling that the whole business had been
done discreditably behind their backs, although, of course, the Masters
had no right, either virtual or technical, to be consulted in the matter
of appointments. Yet when they arrived at Millstead at the beginning of
the term and learned that Speed, their junior by ever so many years, had
married the Head's daughter during the vacation and had been forthwith
appointed to the mastership of Lavery's, they could not forbear an
instant sensation of ruefulness which developed later into more or less
open antagonism. Not all the talk about the desirability of young
married housemasters could dispel that curious feeling of having been
slighted.
Secretly, no doubt, they hoped that Lavery's would be too much for
Speed. And on the occasion of the row between Speed and Smallwood they
sympathised with the latter, regarding him as the victim of Speed's
monstrous and aggressive self-assertion. The circumstance that Speed
took few meals now in the Masters' Common-Room prevented the legend of
his self-assertiveness from being effectively smashed; as term
progressed and as Speed's eager and pertinacious enthusiasm about the
concert became apparent, the legend rather grew than diminished.
Clanwell, alone, perhaps, of all the staff, still thought of Speed
without feelings of jealousy, and that was rather because he regarded
him as one of his elder boys, to be looked after and advised when
necessary. He formed the habit of inviting Speed into his room to coffee
once or twice a week, and on these occasions he gave the young man many
hints drawn from his full-blooded, though rather facile, philosophy.
At the conclusion of one of these evening confabulations he caught hold
of Speed's arm as the latter was going out by the door and said: "I say,
Speed,--just before you go--there's a little matter I've been wondering
all night whether I'd mention to you or not. I hope you won't be
offended. I'm the last man to go round making trouble or telling tales,
and I'm aware that I'm risking your friendship if I say what I have in
mind."
"You won't do that," said Speed. "Say what you want to say." He stared
at Clanwell nervously, for at a call such as this a cloud of vague
apprehensions would swarm round and over him, filling the future with
dark dreads.
"It's about your wife," said Clanwell. "I'm not going to say much. It
isn't anything to worry about, I daresay. Perhaps it doesn't justify my
mentioning it to you. Your wife..."
"Well?"
"I should--keep an eye on her, if I were you. She's young, Speed,
remember. She's--"
"What do you mean--keep an eye on her? What should I keep an eye on her
for?"
"I told you, Speed, I wasn't going to say much. You mustn't imagine
yourself on the verge of a scandal--I don't suppose there's anything
really the matter at all. Only, as I was saying, she's young, and
she--she's apt to do unwise things. Once or twice lately, while you've
been out, she's had Smallwood in to tea."
"Smallwood!--Alone?"
"Yes, alone."
Speed blushed furiously and was silent. A sudden new feeling, which he
diagnosed as jealousy, swept across him; followed by a further series of
feelings which were no more than various forms of annoyance and
exacerbation. He clenched his fists and gave a slight shrug of his
shoulders.
"How do you know all this?" he queried, in the staccato bark that was so
accurate a register of his temper.
"Smallwood isn't the fellow to keep such an affair secret," replied
Clanwell. "But don't, Speed, go and do anything rash. If I were you I
should go back and--"
"I shan't do anything rash," interrupted Speed, curtly. "You needn't
worry. Good-night.... I suppose I ought to thank you for your kindness
in telling me what you have."
When he had gone he regretted that final remark. It was, he decided,
uselessly and pointlessly cynical.
II
It was a pity, perhaps, that in his present mood he went straight back
to Lavery's and to Helen. He found her sitting, as usual, by the fire
when he entered; he made no remark, but came and sat opposite to her.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. That was not unusual for them,
for Helen had frequent fits of taciturnity, and Speed, becoming familiar
with them, found himself adopting similar habits. After, however, a
short space of silence, he broke it by saying: "Helen, do you mind if we
have a serious talk for a little while."
She looked up and said, quietly: "Where have you been?"
"Clanwell's," he replied, and as soon as he had done so he realised that
she would easily guess who had informed him. A pity that he had answered
her so readily.
"What do you want to ask me?"
He said, rather loudly, as always when he was nervous: "Helen, I'm going
to be quite straightforward. No beating about the bush, you
understand?--You've had Smallwood in here to tea lately, while I've been
out."
"Well?" Her voice, irritatingly soft, just as his own was irritatingly
loud, contained a mixture of surprise and mockery. "And what if I have?"
He gripped the arms of the wicker-chair with his fists, causing a
creaking sound that seemed additionally to discompose him. "Helen, you
can't do it, that's all. You mustn't. It won't do.... It..."
Suddenly she was talking at him, slowly and softly at first, then in a
rising, gathering, tempestuous torrent; her eyes, lit by the firelight,
blazed through the tears in them. "Can't I? Mustn't I? You say it won't
do? You can go out whenever and wherever you like, you can go out to
Clanwell's in the evening, you can walk down to the town with Clare, you
can have anybody you like in to tea, you choose your own friends, you
live your own life--and then you actually dare to tell me I can't!--What
is it to you if I make a friend of Smallwood?--Haven't I the right to
make friends without your permission?--Haven't I the right to entertain
_my_ friends in here as much as you have the right to entertain _your_
friends?--Kenneth, you think I'm a child, you call me a child, you treat
me as a child. _That's_ what won't do. I'm a woman and I won't be
domineered over. So now you know it."
Her passion made him suddenly icily cool; he was no longer the least bit
nervous. He perceived, with calm intuition, that this was going to be
their first quarrel.
"In the first place," he began quietly, "you must be fair to me. Surely,
it is not extraordinary that I should go up to see Clanwell once or
twice during the week. He's a colleague and a friend. Secondly, walking
down into the town to see Clare home after rehearsals is a matter of
common politeness, which you, I think, asked me particularly to do. And
as for asking people in to tea, you have, as you say, as free a choice
in that as I have, except when you do something absolutely unwise.
Helen, I'm serious. Don't insist on this argument becoming a quarrel. If
it does, it will be our first quarrel, remember."
"You think you can move me by talking like that!"
"My dear, I think nothing of the sort. I simply do not want to quarrel.
I want you to see my point of view, and I'm equally anxious to see
yours. With regard to this Smallwood business, you must, if you think a
little, realise that in a place like Millstead you can't behave
absolutely without regard for conventions. Smallwood, remember, is
nearly your own age. You see what I mean?"
"You mean that I'm not to be trusted with any man nearly my own age?"
"No, I don't mean that. The thought that there could be anything in the
least discreditable in the friendship between Smallwood and you never
once crossed my mind. I know, of course, that it is perfectly honest and
above-board. Don't please, put my attitude down to mere jealousy. I'm
not in the least jealous."
What surprised him more than anything else in this amazing chain of
circumstances, was that he was sitting there talking to her so calmly
and deliberately, almost as if he were arguing an abstruse point in a
court of law! Of this new cold self that was suddenly to the front he
had had no former experience. And certainly it was true to say that at
that moment there was not in him an atom of jealousy.
She seemed to shrivel up beneath the coldness of his argument. She said,
doggedly: "I'm not going to give way, Kenneth."
They both looked at each other then, quite calmly and subconsciously a
little awed, as if they could see suddenly the brink on which they were
standing.
"Helen, I don't want to domineer over you at all. I want you to be as
free to do what you like as I am. But there are some things, which, for
my sake and for the sake of the position I hold here, you ought not to
do. And having Smallwood here alone when I am away is one of those
things."
"I don't agree. I have as much right to make a friend of Smallwood as
you have to make a friend of--say Clare!"
The mention of Clare shifted him swiftly out of his cool, calculating
mood and back into the mood which had possessed him when he first came
into the room. "Not at all," he replied, sharply. "The cases are totally
different. Smallwood is a boy--a boy in my House. That makes all the
difference."
"I don't see that it makes any difference."
"Good heavens, Helen!--You don't see? Don't you realise the sort of talk
that is getting about? Doesn't it occur to you that Smallwood will
chatter about this all over the school and make out that he's conducting
a clandestine flirtation with you? Don't you see how it will undermine
all the discipline of the House--will make people laugh at me when my
back's turned--will--"
"And I'm to give up my freedom just to stop people from laughing at you,
am I?"
"Helen, _why_ can't you see my point of view? Would you like to see me a
failure at Lavery's? Wouldn't you feel hurt to hear everybody sniggering
about me?"
"I should feel hurt to think that you could only succeed at Lavery's by
taking away my freedom."
"Helen, marriage isn't freedom. It's partnership. I can't do what I
like. Neither can you."
"I can try, though."
"Yes, and you can succeed in making my life at Millstead unendurable."
She cried fiercely: "I won't talk about it any longer, Kenneth. We don't
agree and apparently we shan't, however long we argue. I still think
I've a right to ask Smallwood in to tea if I want to."
"And I still think you haven't."
"Very well, then--" with a laugh--"that's a deadlock, isn't it?"
He stared at the fire silently for some moments, then rose, and came to
the back of her chair. Something in her attitude seemed to him
blindingly, achingly pathetic; the tears rushed to his eyes; he felt he
had been cruel to her. One part of him urged him to have pity on her,
not to let her suffer, to give way, at all costs, rather than bring
shadows over her life; to appeal, passionately and perhaps
sentimentally, that she would, for his sake, if she loved him, make his
task at Lavery's no harder than it need be. The other part of him said:
No, you have said what is perfectly fair and true; you have nothing at
all to apologise for. If you apologise you will only weaken your
position for ever afterwards.
In the end the two conflicting parts of him effected a compromise. He
said, good-humouredly, almost gaily, to her: "Yes, Helen, I'm afraid it
is a deadlock. But that's no reason why it should be a quarrel. After
all, we ought to be able to disagree without quarrelling. Now, let's
allow the matter to drop, eh? Eh, Helen? Smile at me, Helen!"
But instead of smiling, she burst into sudden passionate sobbing. Her
head dropped heavily into her hands and all her hair, loosened by the
fall, dispersed itself over her hands and cheeks in an attitude of
terrific despair. On Speed the effect of it was as that of a knife
cutting him in two. He could not bear to see her misery, evoked by
something said or done, however justifiably, by him; pity swelled over
him in a warm, aching tide; he stooped to her and put a hand
hesitatingly on her shoulder. He was almost afraid to touch her, and
when, at the first sensation of his hand, she drew away hurriedly, he
crept back also as if he were terrified by her. Then gradually he came
near her again and told her, with his emotion making his voice gruff,
that he was sorry. He had treated her unkindly and oh--he was _so_
sorry. He could not bear to see her cry. It hurt him.... Dear, darling
Helen, would she forgive him? If she would only forgive him she could
have Smallwood in to tea every day if she wished, and damn what anybody
said about it! Helen, Helen....
Yet the other part of him, submerged, perhaps, but by no means silent,
still urged: You haven't treated her unkindly, and you know you haven't.
You have nothing to apologise for at all. And if she does keep on
inviting Smallwood in you'll have the same row with her again, sooner or
later.
"Helen, _dear_ Helen--_do_ answer me!--Don't cry like that--I can't bear
it!--Answer me, Helen, answer me!"
Then she raised her head and put her arms out to him and kissed him with
fierce passion, so that she almost hurt his neck. Even then she did not,
for a moment, answer, but he did not mind, because he knew now that she
had forgiven him. And strangely enough, in that moment of passionate
embrace, there returned to him a feeling of crude, rudimentary jealousy;
he felt that for the future he would, as Clanwell had advised him, have
to keep an eye on her to make sure that none of this high, mountainous
love escaped from within the four walls of his own house. He felt
suddenly greedy, physically greedy; the thought, even instantly
contradicted, of half-amorous episodes between her and Smallwood
affected him with an insurgent bitterness which made the future heavy
with foreboding.
She whispered to him that she had been very silly and that she wouldn't
have Smallwood in again if he wished her not to.